Overdose
by AI2A
Summary: [SHERMIONE] There was a reason why he let Mycroft think he was a virgin. He didn't want him to know that he was right—that caring was a disadvantage, or that he'd lost more than his virginity the summer when he was 16. Sentiment was a weakness...but what was love? When he finds her again years later, barely conscious and bleeding, his heart's forced to feel once more. (Temp.Hiatus)
1. INK-STAINED FINGERS

**STANDARD DISCLAIMER** | _I don't own BBC's SHERLOCK or JKR's HARRY POTTER. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story._ _Direct quotes from SHERLOCK are in italics and are *'d_ _._

* * *

 **CANON NOTES** | Since we don't know when _exactly_ Sherlock was born, I'm going to say he's born November 1, 1978. (I'll use this same date if I write another crossover.) _Moreover, I believe at sixteen, Sherlock had more of a "Mind Library" than a "Mind Palace."_ This story more or less sticks to the canon events of both HP and SHERLOCK, but I'm going to play around with them. You'll have to read to find out more. _I hope you enjoy the story!_

* * *

 **OVERDOSE**

by AI2A

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

INK-STAINED FINGERS

* * *

 _July 1995_

It happened again—his parents had taken him out of yet _another_ boarding school. At least he'd stayed the whole year this time. _  
_  
Normally, they would have pulled him from one school just before the Christmas holidays and enrolled him in another when the holidays were over. Then the problems would start over and they would shove him into another boarding school after summer.

He'd absolutely no idea as to how he had managed to last a whole year without changing schools, but he really didn't care. Mycroft had said it was because he'd finally learned to shut up, but that was far from the truth. In actuality, he'd stopped wasting his time on talking to imbeciles.  
 _  
_The shiny black Motorola sat next to him on the wrought-iron bench. His father had thrust it into his hands before he'd left the house.

"Your mother worries," was all his father had said.

In his mind, he'd snorted at the absurdity of his sire's words. When it came to him, his mother hardly ever spared a thought. If he had been Mycroft, however, then his mother would have smothered him in affection and catered to his every whim.

It was rather ridiculous how much his mother adored her first-born son. However, said son couldn't be bothered to come home for holidays anymore. The last time he'd actually seen his older brother had been when he'd gone off to Uni five years ago.  
 _  
_Then again, he'd never really had a close relationship with Mycroft. His brother had been a bully. Ever since he'd turned five, his sibling hadn't hesitated to remind him of his inferiority.

" _Don't be smart, Sherlock, I'm the smart one."_

" _Father didn't take you to the cinema? Pity."_

" _You can't have these biscuits. Mum made them for me."_

By the time he was six, he'd known he would never be as smart, as important, or as loved as Mycroft. He would never be the favourite son. _  
_  
Sighing, he pocketed the phone and returned to staring at a point beyond the fence of the little park. He'd suffocated in the stiff atmosphere at home. When he'd started to count his breaths out of sheer boredom, he'd shoved on his trainers and hurried to the door. His father had stopped him to give him the phone and sixty pounds then sent him on his way with a warning to be home before sundown.

He'd hurried to the nearest Tube station, paid for a ticket, and chosen a train at random. Now, he sat on a bench in a small park on a street called Grimmauld Place in Islington after wandering the streets for an hour. With a few more hours before sundown, he tossed about ideas on what he would do next.

Before he could slip into his Mind Library, the screech of the park's gate drew his attention.

His eyes landed on the girl's mane of brown curls before anything else. It was _massive_ , but not frizzy, just very curly. Immediately, he took in the rest of her appearance, his deductions pushing his boredom away momentarily.

 _She's about my age, maybe a bit younger. Clothes are new, but dirty. Probably spent the morning cleaning. Book's spine is frayed, the cover untitled and worn, and the pages yellowed. It's old, a few decades old give or take some years. Lower lip is slightly darker than the other. She bites it a lot, both a habit and nervous tick. The wariness in her eyes shows she's cautious, but only slightly._

When her head turned towards him, he shut his eyes, pretending to nap. Footsteps neared and stopped a little ways away from him. Ever so slightly, he opened one eye and spied the girl sitting on the other bench beside his.

The book in her lap had an old silk ribbon as a bookmark, and her slender, ink-stained fingers— _she probably practices calligraphy—_ toyed with it. She paid him no mind, her eyes focused on the tome in her hands and read. From where he sat, he could only see her profile and not her whole face, but it was enough to keep studying the girl.

He wasn't one to bother with the opposite sex—or the same sex for that matter—but as a boy of sixteen with very little control of his hormones, he admitted that this girl was pretty, if a little plain. She was shorter than him, but that was because he'd had another growth spurt. If they stood face to face, however, her face would be level with his chest. He was right about her habit of chewing on her lip, for her teeth caught it while she read.

 _Her teeth are very straight, and white. Strict dental hygiene signifies either obsessive or ingrained habits. Her parents are most likely dentists.'_

Her nose was straight but turned up slightly at the tip, but it suited her face. As did her mass of curls, which fell past her shoulders. Thick eyebrows framed brown eyes, and he started at the intelligence in them.

It was rare to find anyone with even a smattering of brain cells these days. Of course, not everyone was an idiot, but nine out of ten people were. Deductions, most of the students that attended the so-called "prestigious" boarding schools he'd gone to were rich idiots!

The weak breeze caught a curl of her hair and whipped it across her face. Her lips pursed when the hair flew into her eyes, and the urge to tuck it behind her ear flared inside him. He stamped it down, mercilessly, although there was a sense of disappointment when she tucked it away instead that sat like a stone inside his chest.

Without realising it, he had slid down his bench until he was at the end and closer to her. Her eyes flickered from her book and met his. Every single function of his body ceased and he waited for her next move.

Warmth tickled his cheeks when her eyes roved over him. Beneath his sternum, his heart palpitated wildly, his blood roaring in his ears with just as much vigour as his heart. A flash of wariness filled her gaze and his stomach rolled uncomfortably. It... _unsettled_ him to see such mistrust directed at him, especially from this girl, but he had no clue as to why—it just did.

"Do you need something?"

He liked her voice. It wasn't snooty or nasally like his mother's, or sharp and stern like some of his past instructors. No—her voice was soft but firm with a slight lilt to it.

"What are you reading?" he asked, disregarding her question in favour of starting a conversation.

The girl didn't answer him immediately answer him, but some of the caution in her eyes receded. She shifted towards him, and he revelled in her attention.  
 _  
_" _The Murders in the Rue Morgue,_ " she said.

His nose wrinkled and lips curled downwards. " _Poe?_ You're reading Poe?"

Much to his surprise, she laughed at his distaste. He liked her laugh too. It wasn't an incessant giggle or a screeching cackle but neither was it a tickling laugh. Her laugh was just...real, hearty and joyous. His frown unfurled then, and he had to press his lips together to keep from grinning widely.

 _Get it together Sherlock!_ his inner voice, which sounded strangely like Mycroft, snapped. _Infatuation is pointless, a hindrance_ _. You have no need for it._

"I like mysteries," she returned defensively. "And I haven't read this one yet."

"Well, it is rather dull, and plainly obvious that the orangutan did it," he said.

Her reaction wasn't what he expected. He thought she'd be angry that he'd spoiled the story, but no. In fact, she looked _intrigued_ more than anything else.

Sliding closer to the end of her bench, and to him, the girl closed her book, her ink-stained fingers marking her place instead of the tattered strip of silk. "You've read it then?"

He shrugged. "Most of it. Didn't even finish it, in fact."

A shapely eyebrow arched. "Then how do you know the sailor's orangutan did it?"

Ever so slowly, he leaned forward and motioned for her to do the same. When their faces were closer, he whispered one word: "Deduction."

"Deduction?" she said sceptically.

"Deduction," he affirmed.

Replacing her finger with the ribbon, she closed the book and folded her hands over it. "And how do you know you're right?"

"I'm always right," he said with no amount of modesty.

The girl smirked at him then. "Not always."

That gave him pause, and he stared at her.

For the longest time _,_ they said nothing, just stared at one another. It was his turn to be cautious, his defences instantly up and prepared for her to remark on his shortcoming on how he wasn't smart, wasn't correct, _wasn't good enough_.

"Explain," he said gruffly, struggling to keep the riot of his emotions out of his voice but failing.

Scooting closer so that she was at the end of her bench and all that separated them were the arms of the benches and a metre of space, the girl met his gaze, but unlike Mycroft, she didn't look at him with the sole purpose of tearing him apart for information. No—she wasn't his brother. Her brilliant brown eyes weren't cold or calculating, but warm and understanding. That same warmth filled his chest cavity and throat.

"You're the second child, but your parents clearly favour your elder sibling. A brother, if I'm not mistaken. There's always been tension between you and your brother, but it's not necessarily sibling rivalry. It's more than that.

"When I disagreed with you, I saw that I'd hit a sore spot, I apologise if I did. I didn't mean to," she said sincerely. "However, you're confident in your own right, but when your intelligence is questioned, especially by those you care about or are close to you, you build walls to protect yourself from getting hurt.

"I'm guessing your brother is the one that often puts you down. He's the favourite child, and he always reminds you of that, doesn't he?" He nodded, weakly. "He doesn't live with you anymore, but that doesn't change how your parents treat you. You still feel inferior even though your brother's gone, and so to make yourself feel better, you flaunt your intelligence in front of those you feel are lesser than yourself."

His throat was dry and he couldn't look away from her warm eyes. There was no recrimination in them, nothing to suggest that she found fault in his behaviour or agreed with his family's treatment. In fact, there was nothing but a soft kind of understanding that soothed an ache in his soul, which he furiously refused to acknowledge.

"How do you know this?" he croaked, wincing at scratchiness of his voice.

"Because I know how you feel," she replied. "I know what it's like to feel inferior, to rely on intelligence to feel confident, to feel important. I know that no matter how confident you feel that there are times when the insecurity sneaks up on you like a shadow in the night."

Her smile was meagre and insecure, and he knew then that she wasn't lying to him or simply being patronising. She was honest and understood his struggles because she'd been in the same situation. And he realised then that she was right—that he wasn't always right.

She went on. "I'm not always right either. I'm human so I'm bound to make mistakes and fall. I value knowledge, crave it in fact. I will never be pretty, so I'm insecure in my looks, but I'm brainy and a know-it-all and that works for me.

"I know that intelligence is intimidating and arrogance doesn't make friends. I'm rather proud of my brain, but I've learned that a little humility goes a long way," she said.  
 _  
_With that said, she stood, gave him another kind smile and walked towards the gate. He was on his feet instantly despite the jumble of thoughts buzzing around in his Mind Library. His chest contracted painfully, a vise squeezing his heart at the sight of her leaving. Feet moving before he could tell them to, he was there, facing her once more and preventing her from going.

She jerked backwards when he halted her path.

Less than three metres lay between them, and yet he couldn't remember a time when he'd ever been closer to someone. Her eyes, those warm whiskey brown eyes, were wide, but unlike before, they weren't wary of him, just confused.

"What's your name?" he asked brusquely.

For some reason, he _needed_ to know her name. He needed _her_ to tell him, to find him worthy enough to know her. Never had he needed something so ardently, so desperately. The need for this girl's name shouldn't have been more important than the need for his parents' affection, or his brother's regard, but it was. In the span of ten minutes, she'd deduced him, but rather than disparage him for his faults, she'd sympathised with him—he, a total stranger—and shared with him her own flaws and insecurities.  
 _  
_He needed to know her name because for once, he didn't want to find out about a person through his own deductions. For the first time since he'd learned how to deduce, he wanted someone to tell him, to trust and like him enough to share their stories and secrets, their dreams and aspirations, their fears and insecurities, _everything_ with him.

But more than anything, he wanted a friend—and he wanted it to be her.

"Hermione," she said after a beat. "Hermione Granger."  
 _  
_"Hermione," he repeated, enjoying the way it fell from his lips.

He liked it; it suited her. Everything about her suited her, actually—from her mane of brown curls to the thirteen freckles across her nose to her ink-stained fingers. There was not a single thing that he didn't like about her, and that frightened him.

Never had he liked someone so completely, flaws and all. She was intelligent and kind, and there was nothing about her that he would change. For all her imperfections, the wild hair and ink-stained fingers, she was perfect.

"And you?" she asked, drawing his attention once more.

Standing a little taller, he replied, "I'm Sherlock Holmes." He held his hand out. "It's nice to meet you, Hermione Granger."

The brightness of her smile warmed his blood. "It's nice to meet you too, Sherlock Holmes."

Reluctantly, he let go of her hand, and they stood there in a slightly awkward silence. A minute passed and Hermione murmured her farewell with a nod. She walked around him and he turned to watch her go, wrestling with the need to say something else, to keep her from going _, from never seeing her again_.

"You're wrong you know," he called out without thinking, moving closer towards her so she would hear him. "You're wrong."

Hermione stopped once more and turned to him, her brows crinkled and eyes glimmering with confusion. "What?"

The words caught in his throat. He'd never said them to a girl before let alone thought them. However, he gathered courage, determined to have Hermione Granger as his friend. She was worth every ounce of discomfort that rampaged in his veins.

"You said you weren't pretty," he murmured. "You're wrong." His gaze never left hers, but his heart hammered and rammed against his sternum. "You are pretty." The blush that stained her cheeks was worth his discomfort in itself. "Never let anyone tell you otherwise."

Letting his words sink in, he took out the notepad and pen he kept in his coat. He scribbled the number of his new phone down, tore the sheet from the pad, took her hand, and placed the paper in her palm. Carefully, he closed her ink-stained fingers around the slip of paper and let himself revel in the softness of her hand for a moment before releasing it.

"Goodbye Hermione," he said, inclining his head in farewell.

He manoeuvred sharply around Hermione and headed for the park gate. His blood roared loudly in his ears, but it was warm still. The discomfort had yet to leave, but delight from the sight of Hermione's pink cheeks thrummed in his veins.

"Will you come tomorrow?"

The question startled and pleased him all at once. His mood lifted even more, and when he turned to Hermione, he couldn't fight the upward curl of his lips. When her own mouth curved into a shy smile, his widened.

"What time?" he asked in response despite the fact that he had planned to come back tomorrow.  
 _  
_"Eleven." she said.

He nodded. "I'll see you at eleven then."

When he returned home, it was already sundown and his father lectured him. He tuned out his sire's words but responded appropriately, all the while thinking about Hermione Granger with her wild hair and ink-stained fingers.

* * *

 _February 2010_

It was one of those days where the rain seemed unending. The downpour had begun sometime in the afternoon, and it was still positively dreadful. From where he stood at the window, violin tucked under his chin and bow in hand, he saw that the streets were nearly abandoned—the rain was that heavy and awful.

Having solved the case with the forced suicides and cabbie- _cum_ -serial-killer, boredom had crept upon him as swiftly as a thief in the night. It'd not been a day since the incident at the university, and he was already bored out of his Mind Palace. Of course, his compositions gave him some respite, and normally kept him busy, but it wasn't doing so now.

Behind him, John sat in his chair, typing away on his laptop. He paid his flatmate no mind, prefering his violin and compositions. Idly, he drew his bow across the strings of the instrument, letting the notes fill his ears and head, letting them draw him away from the direction of _that_ door.

 _Never again._

Over the years, there had only been a handful of times in which he'd strayed towards the direction of said door. He always forced himself away, however, before he ever grew close enough to see it. Though whenever he had strayed towards it, he often berated himself for allowing it to lure him towards it.

 _Never again._

He studiously ignored Mrs Hudson's entrance and her reprimand over his untouched tea. Inwardly, he sighed when she turned her attention to John and fussed over the doctor. Despite his indifference, he appreciated his landlady's concern, seeing as she was the only one—Mycroft did so out obligation—to worry, genuinely, over him. Sometimes, it bothered him that he was unable to show Mrs Hudson how much he appreciated her. While he knew his landlady would never be like _her_ , he refused to allow sentimentality to rule him again.

 _Never again._

"Is this the case you two solved? The one with the suicides?" Mrs Hudson asked. "You're writing about it?"

"I solved it," he said suddenly, not turning to the other occupants. "John assisted me."

John's sigh caused his lips to twitch, but he still focused on the window, the sky black from the night and rain-laden clouds. His flatmate proceeded to answer their landlady's questions, leaving him to his violin and thoughts.

A sharp crack of thunder forced him to stop.

Removing his violin from under his chin, he moved towards the window, his eyes frantically darting across the sky. Prior to the roar of thunder, there had been no flash of lightning. It was _impossible_ for there to be thunder without lightning; thunder was a direct result of lightning.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a figure stumbling down the street. He turned his head sharply to watch the figure— _female, young, intoxicated_ —stumbling down Baker Street. The rain obscured his sight of the woman, but he knew she was clutching her side and favouring her left leg. _  
_  
Alarms sounded in his head, but he stood still, not entirely sure if the signals his mind were correct. When she turned to look behind her more than once, he heeded the alarms and it was only when she collapsed in front of Speedy's that he was able to see her more clearly.

It was the sight of her blood mixing with the rain on the concrete that forced him to act.

"Mrs Hudson, grab some fresh towels, John's first aid kit, and hot water," he barked, already heading to the door. "John, come with me. Hurry!"

Not waiting for either of them, he bolted down the stairs. Adrenaline tore through his veins, causing his boredom to recede. He flung the door of 221 open, rushing to the woman's side. Immediately, the downpour permeated through his dressing gown and soaked his house clothes.

The rain plastered her hair to her face, shrouding it from his view. He began looking over the woman, finding that there was a deep gash on her hip that cut through her jeans. At her temple, there was a cut that bled profusely and he ripped off the woman's sodden scarf to press it against her wound. Her breathing was shallow and her face, what he could see of it through her hair, was sheet-white.

"Bloody hell," John hissed beside him. "What happened?"

"I don't know," he said. "I saw her stumbling down the road and thought her drunk. It wasn't until she collapsed that I noticed she was bleeding."

"Well, we have to hurry, then. She needs help now," his flatmate said  
 _  
_Before he could move, John was already hauling the woman into his arms and back inside the flat. He followed the doctor up the stairs and into their living room where he set the woman down on the couch. Mrs Hudson had already gathered the things he had demanded and he took them from her.

Shoving them towards John, he stood back and watched as the doctor worked on wrestling the sodden trench coat off the woman. Mrs Hudson hurried to help him while he stood back and once again deduced the woman.

 _Casual clothes. She was out, probably meeting friends or co-workers, when her attacker ambushed her. Wrinkles on her shoulder. Bruises on her neck. There was a struggle when her attacker grabbed her. He threw her to the floor or against a wall, explains the gash at her temple. A blade, however, didn't make the gouge on her hip. Her wound is too long and deep._

A strangled gasp drew his attention and his brain did something it had not done in a long time—it stopped thinking. And it was because of the sight of the woman's face.

It was _her_ face.

 _The_ door suddenly burst open inside his Mind Palace.

Memories upon memories burst forth from behind that door, overwhelming him with a maelstrom of savours, sights, sounds, and sensations. And for the first time in years, his emotions ravaged him, and feelings pervaded him so deeply that he could do nothing but experience it all.

Then he was _there_ again. There, with her under him; her groans in his ears, her taste on his tongue, her hands on his shoulders. Fire and electricity, desire and ache, stormed in his blood and bones. His body tightened in agony that was both sweet and bitter as he remembered—remembered her and the time they shared, the wounds she had healed and the scars she had left.

He couldn't move, and yet he _needed_ to move. The desire to run away from her battled with the ache to be near her again. His head screamed at him to leave, to remove her from his life before she could ruin him again. In his chest, however, despite the scars that she'd inflicted upon it, his heart begged for her to stay, forever this time.

 _She_ was the reason as to why he let Mycroft think he was a virgin. He didn't want his brother to know that he was right—that caring was a disadvantage. Sentiment was a weakness...but what they'd had fourteen years ago had been more than just sentiment. Now she was here, lying on his couch barely conscious and bleeding, and his heart was forced to feel once more. That summer, Hermione Granger had taken more than just his virginity.

She had taken his heart.

"Sherlock, we need to get her to the hospital," John said hurriedly. "I've cleaned her wounds and stitched her up but she's lost a lot of blood. Not to mention she has a concussion, several of her ribs are broken as is her clavicle, and she may have a punctured lung."

"No!" he snapped when his chest constricted violently. At the startled looks, his flatmate and landlady gave him, his mind worked furiously to provide them with some excuse that would sound logical enough to keep her here, to prevent her from leaving him again. "Her attacker could still be looking for her. If they find her, she'll be as good as dead. Look at her. Barely conscious, bleeding, bruised, battered. Whoever attacked her clearly wanted her dead."

"She'll probably die if we don't!"

Again, his heart warred with his head, but somehow they came to an agreement. Grabbing his phone, he called for an ambulance while barking orders at Mrs Hudson to put new sheets on his bed. He was not about to let her go again without so much as an explanation as to why she abandoned him in the first place. When she was better enough to leave the hospital, she would be returning to Baker Street for the duration of her recovery so he could get the answers he'd waited fourteen years to receive.

"John, get me some new clothes," he ordered, stripping out of his damp dressing gown. "And get changed yourself."

"What? Why? Where are we going?" the doctor asked, eyes wide in bewilderment.

"To the hospital," he replied, strutting about the flat in just his underpants and socks. "Don't forget my clothes John."

When the doctor left the room, he dropped the pretence of texting and hurried to Hermione.

His hands shook as they gently pushed away her rain-soaked curls. Unknowingly, his fingers traced the curve of her cheek to the thirteen freckles dotting her nose. It'd been so long since he'd touched the softness of her skin.

She hadn't changed much in fourteen years. With her curls still wild and her fingers still ink-stained, she had only grown more attractive in her appearance. Resolutely, he kept his eyes from lingering too long on her body, though he unwittingly noted that her once lithe frame had also grown more attractive as well.

Just as quickly as he had raced to her, he forced himself away from her. Turning his back to the injured woman, he busied himself with looking through her trench coat. It would keep him from falling prey to his emotions once more by trying to find clues as to what she'd been doing before the attack.

He had just found her phone when Mrs Hudson entered the room.

"Sherlock Holmes! _What are you doing?_ " his landlady screeched. "Where are your clothes?"  
 _  
_Not bothering to look at her, he turned on Hermione's phone and cursed when he found it locked. It had a four-number pin and he summoned all the dates Hermione had found important, like her birthday or the parents' anniversary. Seeing that her phone was an _Drakon M3_ , a smartphone steadily rising in popularity, he had three tries before the phone would lock for the first lock period, which last a minute; after that, he'd have three more tries before it locked into another lock period.

"What are you doing Sherlock?" John asked, freshly changed and carrying his own clothes.

He didn't answer the doctor but took the clothes and hurried to put them on. When he finished dressing, he looked at John's choice of apparel and grimaced at the casual trousers and button-down— _really John?_ Disregarding the amused expression on his flatmate's face, he yanked his proffered overcoat from John's grasp and shrugged it on _._ _  
_  
The flash of lights outside signalled the arrival of the ambulance. He wrapped his favoured blue scarf around his neck just as Mrs Hudson went downstairs to let the paramedics inside 221. When a burly Asian man and petite Indian woman entered the flat behind his landlady, he was right there behind them as they carefully transferred Hermione onto a scoop stretcher and carried her out the door then down the stairs.

"Stop dawdling John!" he called out when he reached the bottom of the stairs and the doctor wasn't following him.

He climbed in after the paramedics when they loaded Hermione into the ambulance. The woman gave him a wary look but said nothing as he sat on the bench next to the gurney. John had climbed into the vehicle just as the male paramedic was shutting the doors. With a bang on the wall, they were off and John was interrogating him.

"Why are we going to the hospital?" the doctor asked.

His brow rose to his hairline. "Isn't that what good citizens normally do when they find an injured woman on their doorstep?"

John sputtered. "Well—"

"Moreover, we don't know if this woman's attacker is still after her," he explained in that blasé, factual tone he used when deducing. "Between the two of us, it's highly unlikely that her attacker would try to finish the job."

His flatmate stared at him, and although it discomfited him, he didn't let it show. Despite their short acquaintance, John had this way of seeing through some of his lies and excuses. Most of the time, the doctor believed the rubbish he spouted, but there were times when he saw right through him. It was unsettling because the only other people that had ever saw through him were Mycroft and the unconscious woman on the gurney—Hermione.

Before John could interrogate him further, the paramedics began asking questions, which John answered. He remained quiet all the while, shutting his eyes just enough to give off the illusion that he was in his Mind Palace, but really, he was watching Hermione and the faltering rise and fall of her chest.

Upon reaching Bart's, he swiftly exited the ambulance and followed the paramedics as they moved the gurney out of the vehicle and into the hospital. His eyes never left Hermione's prone form, his strides long and quick to stay close to her. John was practically running to keep up with him and the paramedics.

Nurses and a doctor rushed towards them and began grilling the paramedics for information. John added in findings and suggestions while he analysed his surroundings and kept vigil beside Hermione.

He was sure the picture he made was quite odd—he probably resembled a demon keeping guard over a wounded maiden. To him, it didn't matter because if his hovering kept Hermione close then he would cling to her like a shadow. She wasn't going to get away from him again.

 _Never again._  
 _  
_They reached the operating room and the nurses barred him from entering. He protested immediately, but John dragged him away to the waiting room down the hall. Huffing, he stalked towards the nearest chair facing the operating room and sat, arms crossed over his chest and a frown on his face. John's comment on his resemblance to a petulant child went ignored.

For the whole time Hermione was in the operating theatre, he kept his gaze locked on the door. John had dozed off after forty minutes, but he stayed wide-awake, his mind in a state of rampant thoughts. His head was at war with his heart, and he was wrestling with the emotions and memories from having Hermione's door opened in his Mind Palace.  
 _  
_Fourteen years—it had been that long since he'd last seen her. Even now he could still remember her smile on her fifteen-year-old face; it'd been so sad but sweet at the same time. _  
_  
During the months following her departure, he'd clung to the memory of her smile and the last kiss they'd shared. She'd consumed him, and at sixteen, he had allowed himself to become fooled by her brilliant eyes, kind smile, and ink-stained fingers. Hope had thrived in him while he'd waited for the next summer, for her return, but when he'd gone to the park on Grimmauld Place in Islington, she hadn't been there.

Foolishly hoping that she'd keep her promise and return to him, he'd waited the entire summer for her—he'd been so naive. Every day his hope had died a little and his heart had hardened. When summer ended, he'd vowed never to let himself feel anything so deeply again. He'd forced his heart to stop feeling and lived life objectively, logically.

 _Caring is a disadvantage. Sentiment is a weakness._  
 _  
_The door to the operating theatre opened and medical staff rolled Hermione's gurney down the hall. Without so much as a look to John, he followed the doctors and nurses. He stood beside the hospital bed while they placed an oxygen mask over her face and hooked her up to monitors and an IV bag.

"Are you her guardian?" a weary doctor asked.

"Yes," he lied, and held his hand out to the doctor. "Sherlock Holmes. I'm her husband."

"Doctor Williams." The man shook his hand. "Well Mr. Holmes, your wife is fine. She should make a full recovery. Your friend did a fine job stitching up her wounds."

"Yes, he did," he agreed, not taking his eyes off the woman resting peacefully on the hospital bed.

"I'll need you to fill out some forms for her when the nurse brings in her things," Doctor Williams said, checking her vitals.

He nodded his head in understanding, and bade the doctor farewell. When the room was empty, he moved to the chair beside the bed. Sighing, he slumped just a bit and stared at Hermione's still pale face _._ _  
_  
In his veins, a storm raged, but he was too exhausted to do anything except keep watch over Hermione. He still wanted to run away and never look back. She made him feel, and while he didn't want to risk his heart again, he needed answers.

The nurse entered the room and handed him a clipboard with paperwork as well as Hermione's belongings. He said nothing as the nurse fussed about Hermione, but kept a close eye on the woman. When she was gone, he set the clipboard and Hermione's clothes aside; he would worry about the paperwork later.

For now, he would watch over her to make sure nothing would harm her, and that she wouldn't disappear again.

Hours later, he was still awake, but his mind was no longer a chaotic mess. By that time, the sun had risen and his Mind Palace was once more an objective vessel. His emotions were locked deep within his chest, and Hermione's door in his mind was shut. He would proceed with caution and cool logic with Hermione's re-emergence in his life.

Outside in the hall, footsteps approached the room, and once he established that they were John's, he forced his body to relax. His flatmate entered the room with a paper cup of coffee and a chocolate turnover in his hands. The doctor sat down in the seat by the window, but not before offering the pastry to him. He declined with a simple sniff of distaste.

"Mrs Hudson never mentioned that you had a wife," John said after taking a bite of his turnover.

For the first time in nearly nine hours, he took his eyes off Hermione. "Pardon?"

"I asked the nurse where you'd gone and she'd said you were in here, with your _wife_." When he simply stared blankly at him, John continued. "Care to explain?"

"They wouldn't have allowed me to stay the night otherwise," he said simply.

"That still doesn't explain why you'd said 'husband' instead of 'brother' now does it?"

"Not as believable."

John snorted. "But definitely more believable than husband."

Indignation shot up his spine. "And just what are you trying to imply?"

The doctor shook his head, abashed. "Nothing, nothing. I just didn't think romantic relationships were really your forte."

"Are you trying to say that I wouldn't be a good husband?" he asked sharply.

"What—no! I just want to know why you're acting like you are. You usually don't care for anyone besides yourself. Well, you might care a bit about Mrs Hudson, and…possibly, me," John explained.  
 _  
_He opened his mouth to retort, but a groan from Hermione stopped him. _  
_  
Immediately, both he and John stood and move towards her. Seeing that John a little too close to her for his liking, he manoeuvered his body so that John was behind him and he was hovering beside the bed.  
 _  
_His breath caught in his throat and time dragged. Seconds turned into millennia and when her eyes finally opened, the reality of the situation finally struck him. _  
_  
She was here with him again for the first time in fourteen years. He'd never been that same since that summer, and despite the whispers in his chest, everything would be different now. Change had taken him and remoulded him into a completely different person—he was a man now. No longer was he a boy of sixteen prone to folly because of his emotions or hormones.

No—he was a man of logic and knowledge. He had no need for emotions. Caring was a disadvantage, sentiment a weakness. Relationships and sex were hindrances; he didn't need them.  
 _  
_ _I don't need her._

The whisper from within his chest, however, gave him pause.

 _You've always needed her._

Upon seeing the whiskey-brown of Hermione's eyes, he straightened and made sure his face was a mask of perfect calm. She had yet to see him and John, but that was because of the disorientation. Furrowed brows and pursed lips indicated that she was in her thoughts, possibly trying to recall what happened to her _._

It was with the wild glint in her eyes that he registered her distress—something was wrong. John left swiftly to get the medical staff, signalling that he too had seen Hermione's unrest.

She whipped her head from side-to-side and upon settling on him, his throat closed up. Fear and wariness joined the franticness in her gaze, but she didn't act on it. Instead, she observed and analysed her surroundings before acting.

"Who are you?" she asked tersely.

Something inside him withered a little bit—he ignored it. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Why are you here? Why am _I_ here?"

"You were attacked last night and collapsed on my doorstep," he said bluntly. "My flatmate and I brought you into our home, and he tried to patch you up. He's a doctor, so don't worry." She nodded slowly in understanding. "When John, the doctor, saw that you need more medical attention, we brought you to the hospital." _  
_  
"That still doesn't explain what you're doing here," she retorted.

He ignored that and asked, "Do you remember anything that happened last night?" _  
_  
Almost instantly, her demeanour changed. Gone was the collected woman running an interrogation, and anxiety seemed to consume her. Her hands fisted into the bedclothes and her eyes focused on them.

"I—I don't remember anything," she murmured. _  
_  
Fury sparked under his skin, but he tamped down the need to go searching for her attacker and end him. He nodded understandingly instead. "Post-traumatic amnesia can occur after a traumatic brain injury. Retrograde amnesia. You merely suffered a concussion, so your memory should return soon," he explained clinically.

"No, you misunderstand," Hermione whispered. She lifted her eyes from her hands and when she met his gaze, the agony in them ripped him apart. "I don't remember _anything_."

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE** | First things first, I'm an American, so I beg for forgiveness now in case I unintentionally offend someone by my crappy characterizations. ( _EDIT 21 NOV. 2015_ ) I'd like to thank my Britpicker and Beta, MyraValhallah, for her help! She's amazing. :3

Also, I noticed the very severe and distinct lack of Shermione on FF, so behold my fic. As it is, this story is rated T (hot, heavy fluff, mild violence, etc etc).

Hope you enjoyed the story so far, and please leave feedback if you did! I appreciate reviews if you guys liked the story, as it motivates me (though I try to already) to write and update quickly!

 _Thank you for reading!_


	2. WHISKEY-BROWN EYES

CHAPTER TWO

WHISKEY-BROWN EYES

* * *

The silence was ear-splitting and oppressive. It pervaded him so deeply that it sunk into his bones and chilled his very being.

For a moment, he didn't speak, too caught up in Hermione's words and their implications. His Mind Palace worked furiously, opening doors and fishing out information to find a solution to the malfunction of not registering her words. Hundreds upon hundreds of thoughts flurried around his mind, but they weren't pieces to the puzzle he was trying to solve.  
 _  
_The realisation finally set in when their gazes met. Her whiskey-brown eyes were wary still, but there was neediness in them that soothed the wounds on his heart. However, dread skulked out from the darkest recesses of his mind, and slithered into his psyche with denial following closely.

"What do you mean you don't remember anything?" he asked sharply. "You don't remember your name? Birthday? How to do maths? Read?"

Hermione furrowed her brows and focused on a point behind him. "My name is Hermione Granger, born on the nineteenth of September, nineteen-seventy-nine," she said slowly. "I can read and do maths, and I can also tell you anything you wanted to know about astrophysics, Ancient Greek history, Japanese culture, or even vector calculus in-depth.

"I know what the Tube is and how to use it. I've read just about every Christie novel save And Then There Were None, and no matter how much you try to deny it, coconut chicken curry is the most delicious dish on the planet." She smiled faintly, but it faded just as quickly as it appeared. "However, if you wanted to know any personal events that happened after the summer when I was eleven, I wouldn't be able to tell you because I don't remember a thing."  
 _  
_In his chest, his heart caved in upon itself. She didn't remember anything just before her twelfth birthday. Meaning, that she _definitely_ did not remember him.

Before the feeble, feeling organ beneath his sternum could start reacting subjectively, his objective mind broke down her words and analysed them.

What she had said hadn't made sense. Retrograde amnesia was a loss of memory-access to events that occurred or information learned before an injury or onset of a disease. Hermione didn't remember anything before the summer of nineteen-ninety-one, and that shouldn't have happened. She shouldn't have remembered much of yesterday evening only.

John re-entered the room then with Doctor Williams trailing behind him. Stepping aside slightly, he allowed his flatmate and the doctor to check over Hermione though he kept a very close eye on the both of them.

"How are you feeling, Mrs Holmes?" the doctor asked. _  
_  
He saw Hermione's reaction to Doctor Williams' words, and before she could say anything to correct the doctor, he spouted their findings. "Hermione can't remember anything up to the summer when she was eleven. She knows her name, birthday, complex maths and sciences as well as how to use the Tube, her favourite author, and her favourite food. Anything else more important than that, like our wedding day, she can't remember."

Doctor Williams wrote his words down, and then began asking Hermione more questions about what she remembered. Twenty minutes later, the doctor gave her the same diagnosis he had, informed her of the date and her current age, and advised them to let her rest before attempting to "jog" her memory again. With one last check of her vitals, the doctor left and Hermione immediately rounded on him.

"You told them I was your wife!" she shrieked.

"And what's so bad about that?" he asked, mildly offended at her outrage.

"I may not remember nineteen years of my life, but I'm more than sure that we are not married," she said. "Moreover, what gave you the idea to claim to be my husband? From what you've told me, we're strangers."  
 _  
_"Is this what it's like being a good person?" he questioned, turning to John. "Because if all I receive is ungratefulness in return for helping someone on the brink of death, I'd much rather leave them to die. Dead bodies are much more interesting than living ones anyway."

" _What?_ "

"Sherlock!"

He ignored them and pulled out his notepad. "Why don't you two acquaint yourselves? I think it would be less awkward for everyone if we were able to _breathe_ around one another comfortably let alone sit in the same room." After scribbling down Hermione's appearance in accurate detail, he tore the page out of the book and turned to John. "Do you have a fifty?"

"What does that have to do anything?" John asked in exasperation, but gave him the bank note anyway.  
 _  
_"It's for the homeless," was all he said before sweeping out of the room.  
 _  
_He headed down the hall, all the while wrapping the bank note around the paper he'd torn from his notebook. Outside of Bart's, he strode down the sidewalk, around the corner, and to an alley near a little Italian bistro. There, huddled against the wall of the alleyway near a pile of boxes and a shopping cart that resembled a makeshift shelter, was a grubby man with stringy dark hair, a wiry beard, and equally shabby clothes.

"Spare change, sir?" the homeless man croaked. "Spare change for a cuppa?"

Pulling the concealed paper, he handed it to the homeless man. "For your ails."  
 _  
_The man nodded and he turned away, striding back towards the hospital.

Before he reached Hermione's room however, a call of his name stopped him. He knew without even turning that it was Molly, and while the detour annoyed him, he'd known Molly for the better part of five years. The registrar also proved invaluable when he was solving a case.

"Hey, what are you doing here? Are you on another case? And so soon?" she asked, blinking a little too exaggeratedly. "Have you been here all night?"

"Yes, obviously," he drawled.

"Oh." A blush stained her cheeks then. "Well, do you, uh, want to get some breakfast? You can't solve murders on an empty stomach."

"I don't eat when I'm on a case." He turned and walked away. "But make sure to stay away from the bangers! You won't lose the weight if you don't cut them out!"  
 _  
_Her sputtering caused his lips to twitch, but he pressed them firmly together. Now was not the time for amusement. Not when Hermione's attacker was still out there and she couldn't remember half of her life. With the help of his homeless network, he would have the data he needed within a few days. _  
_  
Upon returning to the room, he found John and Hermione in the middle of a fit of raucous laughter. Green fire sparked in his veins, but he forced it away. He plopped back into the seat he occupied earlier, and waited for his companions to take notice of his presence. _  
_  
"Oh, there you are," John wheezed, wiping moisture away from his eyes. "What took you so long?"

"Needed data," he replied shortly. "What were you laughing about?"

"John's school science project," Hermione said, beaming widely.

 _I_ don't _need her._ I _don't need_ her _. I don't_ need _her._

He waited for them to elaborate, and when they didn't, his brows pinched. "Care to explain?"

"Nope!" they said simultaneously.

Huffing, he ignored their amusement at his expense and slyly shifted his chair closer towards Hermione's bed. "Doctor Williams said you'll be able to leave in two days. You'll be needing clothes, so when you're released, we'll go to Harrods for anything you need. As I have the bigger bed and room, you'll share with me."

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione asked, incredulous.

"I hardly ever sleep in my bed so there's no need to worry about us sharing it," he went on. "However, we will be sharing a bathroom, so I kindly ask now that you do not hang your _knickers_ —" His nose wrinkled in distaste at the word. "—on the back of the door, the door handle, or the shower curtain rail. Should you need a place to hang your _delicates_ , I'm sure Mrs Hudson has a clothes line in the laundry room that you two could share." _  
_  
Both Hermione and John stared at him in bewilderment. He counted down the seconds when Hermione would begin raging, but what surprised him, was her roar of laughter. The muscles in his abdomen clenched at her merriment and warmth tickled the back of his neck and the tips of his ears.

"And here I was worried that I'd have no place to hang my knickers," she said between chuckles. "Never mind the fact that you're basically forcing me to live with you." Wiping a tear away from her eye, she beamed at him, her brown eyes glittering with amusement. "You really are something, Sherlock Holmes." _  
_  
In all honesty, he had no clue on how to respond to her. She was so different from her fifteen-year-old self, and yet, she was just as he remembered: incandescent, vibrant, brilliant. And the complete opposite of him.  
 _  
_Where she liked to see the best in people, he liked to see the truth, no matter how dark or ugly it was. She was kind and warm, often wearing her heart on her sleeve, where he was cool and indifferent, building walls around him to keep everyone out. Her view of the world was optimistic despite knowing that there was evil tainting it, and what he saw was humanity and all of its ugliness—its deceit, its greed, its envy, _its hate_.

That was why he'd fallen so deeply and desperately in love with her. Hermione had been the light and warmth of his dark and cold world. She had given him everything he had ever wanted and been everything he had not known he had needed. And now that she was here again, the light and warmth she represented dangled in front of him, tempting him as a bone would to a dog.

However, he would not be tempted again.

 _Never again._

"Your amusement aside," he said tersely. "Your amnesia presents a problem to your case."

Her eyebrow arched. "What? My case?"

"You do want to catch your attacker, yes?"

"Of course, but—"

"—Then we're going to have to wait until you've gained your memories of last night," he explained. "My associates are digging around for information as we speak, so hopefully they'll find a lead while we're working on getting your memory back."

"Sherlock, I really don't think this is a good idea," John said.

"And why not? Who else is going to help her?" he asked. "There's enough room in the flat for her."

"While I enjoy you taking about me as if I'm a stray dog, I do believe that I can stay with my parents," Hermione interjected. "They live in Dorking. Their practice is there as well." At John's confused look, she elaborated, "They're dentists. I'm sure they're still there. The practice was my granddad's before my parents took over."

He already had his phone out and began researching the Grangers when John said, "Oh, well, then we'll have to let them know what happened to you. Do you remember their number?"

"I know it, but I don't know if they've changed it or not," she replied. "Wouldn't it be easier to look it up on the internet?"

"Don't bother, I've already found it," Sherlock said, not looking up from his phone.

"Well, what is it then?" John asked, his phone out and ready.

"There isn't one," he murmured.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

Instead of answering, he handed her his phone. His throat constricted at her strangled gasp and her watery gaze as she read the article he had found.

Apparently, there had been a gas leak and the Grangers had died in the accident in February of nineteen-ninety-eight. Hermione would have been in school at the time of the accident. The newspaperhad reported the incident.

Hermione's sobs grew in volume and intensity, and he fought with urge to comfort her warred with the need to distance himself from her. He knew that if he didn't tread carefully, he would easily fall again—and that was something he couldn't do again, _wouldn't do again_.

He would not risk him or his heart again.

 _Never again._

Somewhere inside him, something shifted when John moved from his chair to sit on the bed. Hermione turned to his flatmate, and her door in his Mind Palace grew farther away. Then John wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and it grew farther still. She buried her head in the doctor's shoulder, and the door was nearly out of sight now. Vaguely, his mind registered that he had lost something just now, but the green fire in his blood kept him seeing anything except Hermione in _John's_ embrace—not his.

 _I don't need…_

Abruptly, he stood and stalked out of the room. He left without looking back at his companions; she, clinging to John in grief, and John, holding her in comfort.

A maelstrom howled, rioted, and tore apart the walls of his Mind Palace, and his mind warred against the cyclone. The chaos inside his skull was tearing down the carefully constructed defences. There was nothing but devastation, destruction, and decimation. His walls were breaking, and they just kept on crumbling until they were nothing but piles of dust and ash.

He forced the door to the hospital rooftop open and crumpled to his knees, clutching his head for this was exactly what he had wanted to avoid.

Hardly a day had passed since Hermione had re-entered his life and his carefully constructed world was already falling apart.

 _No—it wasn't falling apart._

If his world had been tearing at the seams then there wouldn't have been this much agony. This was something different, and yet, it was so achingly familiar _._

No—his world wasn't falling apart.

It was expanding, because his mind had found something insufficient, and now it was growing to accommodate whatever that was.

And so, he knelt there on the rooftop of the hospital, holding on to his head and waiting for the agony of his mental expansion to cease. When it did so not a moment later, he immediately slipped into his Mind Palace to explore the new additions.

What he found, however, was not what he was expecting _._

Hermione's door was gone. In its stead were two towering, red mahogany doors. Etched into the doors were golden rampant lions, one for each door, and the doorknobs were shining. He knew immediately that behind the doors was not just a room, but an entire wing for all memories and information regarding Hermione _._

Curious, he touched one handle and found it locked. He jiggled the handle, but it would not budge nor did the door. Growling in frustration, he ripped himself out of his Mind Palace and straightened. With a migraine drumming against his temple, he went back to Hermione's room.

He stopped at a vending machine first however, and tucked away his purchase into his coat pocket. It would not do for the hospital staff to think he had a delight for sweets.

Not five minutes later, he was once more in Hermione's room. By then, her sobs had reduced to sniffles, and she was no longer limpet-like and clutching onto John. They both turned to him, but none of them said anything.

Instead, he removed the chocolate bar from his pocket and tossed it onto her lap. Hermione's eyes widened comically, and he pressed his lips together once again when the corners twitched.

"Eat," he said. "You'll feel better."

A smiled graced her face. "Thank you, Professor Lupin."

All of them froze at once. There was no sound save for the steady beeping of the monitors and the ticking of the clock on the wall. Slowly, and ever so slowly, he and John turned to Hermione, whose eyes were wide with her evident surprise but hazy from the brief recollection of a memory.

"What did you just say?" he questioned sharply. "What did you just call me? Do you remember something? Anything?"

"I—I called you 'Professor Lupin,'" she murmured. "He was my teacher when I was thirteen, but that's all I know. Not what he taught or what he looked like, but I know _he_ also once told me to eat chocolate as well and that it would make me feel better. Why? I haven't the foggiest idea."

"But it's a start," John said. "A good one."

* * *

The days until Hermione's release from the hospital had consisted of him and John keeping the brunette company. He'd had John bring some of his books from home for her as well as changes of clothes for himself. Bart's offered overnight accommodations for relatives of patients, so while he was able to stay with Hermione since he was her "husband," John had to go home.

To say those night were awkward would have been an understatement. Despite the easy camaraderie they once shared, unbeknownst to Hermione, they hardly ever conversed with each other if they could help it. Well, on his part anyway.

Hermione had tried to make conversation with him, but his responses were usually short and terse. His aim had been to keep them from getting too close. While it achieved that, however, the distance usually served to dampen his mood afterward.

Her relationship with John was flowering in comparison to theirs. When John had come over to the hospital, they had spent their time joking and trading stories of their childhood. The two had become fast friends in two days.

When the day of Hermione's release came, there was a weight pressing on his chest and yet there was a lightness in his bones. He, despite the nurse's odd looks, and John left the room so Hermione could change in privacy. Ten minutes later, she emerged from the room with a stilted walk and her clothes from the day of her attack.

He had sent John home with the clothes for Mrs Hudson to launder them, and despite the rips, her clothes were still decidedly fashionable. Hermione's trench coat no longer had wrinkles, but was freshly pressed, and her jumper didn't have blood stains around the collar. Her jeans were much the same, except there was an odd rip curling over her hip. One of his belts covered that and her coat helped hide it as well.

He swiftly finished signing the release forms and then hurried John and Hermione out of Bart's. On the street, he quickly found them a cab then helped Hermione inside and slid in beside her, preventing John from being able to do so. The doctor huffed, but did not say anything.

"Where to?" the gruff cabbie asked.

"Harrods," he said simply. The cabbie nodded, and then he turned to Hermione. "Now, as you know, John doesn't have a job and Scotland Yard doesn't pay me for my services. However, that doesn't mean that we must live frugally. I will admit that I am considerably wealthy—and no, John, I didn't think to mention this when you first moved in—so you need not worry about the cost for clothes or reimbursing me. Just don't leave your _delicates_ in the loo."

"Merlin help me," Hermione muttered to the window before rounding on him. "Sherlock Holmes! If you are going to force me to stay in your home, then we are going to have to set some ground rules."

Dimly, he was aware that Hermione's doors in his Mind Palace gleamed at the sharpness of her tone. The doors opened enough for a memory to slip out, and he recalled her bossiness from when they were younger. He frowned to keep his lips from curling upward instead.

"Yes dear," he said blandly.

Suddenly, her finger was centimetres away from his nose. "Don't you 'yes dear' me, mister." Her voice was low and husky, and it sent heat racing down his spine. "Rule one, you will not tell me where I can and can't hang my 'delicates,' as you call them. If I want to hang them on the door handle of the bathroom then by Merlin, I will.

"Rule two, I am not your housekeeper. Don't expect me to do your laundry, make your bed, or anything else that you can do yourself. You're a grown man, not a child," she said. "Rule three, I am a thirty-year-old woman so I do not need you hovering over me like an overbearing father. Got it?"

Gobsmacked—he was completely and utterly gobsmacked. Not only had she put him in his place, but she had put her foot down. She had basically told him that she wouldn't tolerate his behaviour and would treat him as child if he tried to overbear her.

"'Ere we are," the cabbie interjected.

Hermione gave the gruff man a smile. "Thank you," she sang and flounced out of the cab with as much grace as she could with her stilted walk.

"Got one heck of a bird there, chap," the cabbie said, a smirk on his withered face. "They always like this?" the man asked John.

"Her?" The doctor pointed to Hermione, who was motioning for them to hurry. "No. Him?" John jabbed a thumb into his shoulder. "Unfortunately." Pulling out his wallet, his flatmate paid the fare and tugged his shoulder. "Come on, Sherlock."

Dazed, he followed John to Hermione, and they entered the department store.

The scent of polished floors, colognes, and perfumes immediately assaulted his sinuses. He recoiled and unabashedly held his scarf over his nose. Beside him, Hermione laughed and he found her grinning widely at him. Placing a hand on the small of her back, and ignoring the whispers inside his chest cavity, he steered her towards the women's department.

Upon reaching their destination, he shoved Hermione to the wolves—the sales assistants—and quickly delivered instructions.

"She'll require casual wear for the most part, as well as lingerie—" He ignored the heat slithering up and down his back. "—sleepwear, active wear, and everything in between. Money's no object. If she likes it, set it aside, and don't let her look at the prices. She'll just select clothes based on their cost."

The assistants nodded in understanding and dragged Hermione into the dressing room all the while ignoring her vehement protests. He strode to a posh arrangement of sofas and armchairs and threw himself into an uncomfortable, leather armchair. John did the same and politely asked for an espresso when another one of the assistants offered them refreshments; he just waved the woman away.

"You're certainly making an effort," John said after five minutes of stale silence.

He arched his brow. "Effort?"

"With Hermione," the doctor clarified. "I mean, you don't have to buy her clothes, never mind anything as posh as all—" John made a gesture to the displays around them "— _this."_

"Note to self, dead bodies are far less troublesome," he muttered before meeting his flatmate's stare. "Is there a point to this conversation?"

John's gaze did not waver. "Why are you doing it?"

Nor did his. "Doing what?"

"Helping Hermione."

"Again, I thought that was what 'good citizens' did—help others," he said. "Am I mistaken?"

"They do, but not to always to this extent."

"And what extent would this be?"

"Pretending to be a spouse, offering a place to stay, buying sweets and new clothes," John said. "And I want to know why you're being so… _nice_ to Hermione when you clearly don't like people."

He purposefully delayed his response simply to rile John, and to gather his thoughts. Logically, he knew that Hermione had no one, and because of her amnesia, it made her situation all the more difficult. Despite their history and the danger she represented, he was not completely heartless as everyone thought he was. She needed help, and he needed answers to what happened to her and why she never returned to him all those years ago. Therefore, he reasoned that the only way to acquire those answers was through helping her regain her memory and bringing her to Baker Street.

"I do not suffer imbeciles lightly, John. Hermione is far from an imbecile, so she is an exception," he said slowly. "She has no memory of her life beyond the age of twelve. Her parents are gone and she has no other living relatives. As it stands, we are all she has." He lowered his voice when he went on, "Someone attacked her with the intention of either causing her severe harm or ending her life. You know as well as I do that if we hadn't found her, she would have died from her wounds. I may be a bastard, John, but I'm not heartless."

Without so much as another word, he rose from his chair and moved to examine the displays. He watched John watch him and studiously kept his face blank, pretending to study a pair of rather tall stilettos with the thinnest heels he had ever seen. When his flatmate ceased staring at him, he clenched his eyes shut.

The pain from the expansion of his Mind Palace still beat against his skull. It would be few more days before he could function without the discomfort of a migraine haunting him. As it was, the throb at his temples was very distracting, and he fought to keep all outward signs of his agony from showing.

Two hours later, Hermione was leading them out of the department store with her awkward gait. She had forced him and John to carry her bags, and when he had tried to shift his burden to John, she had glared at him with hell's fire blazing in her whiskey coloured eyes. Wisely, he did not try to do so again, but he did pout the entire cab ride to Baker Street.

He nearly shouted in relief upon reaching 221. Mrs Hudson was outside when the cab pulled up to the curb, and he hurried out of the vehicle. The landlady visibly balked at the sight of him, and he knew he made a sight—in his arms were shopping bags, each filled with blouses, trousers, shoes, and women's delicates.

"Oh goodness, what happened to you Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, amusement and disbelief scrawled across her aged face. "Did you go... _shopping_?"

"Obviously," he drawled with as much dignity as he could muster, which was none because most of the bags in his grasp had pink, scented tissue paper sticking out. When Hermione stepped up next to him, he gestured to her. "Mrs Hudson, meet Hermione Granger. I'm sure John has already filled you in with the details of the situation. Hermione, this is Mrs Hudson, our landlady."

"Hello, ma'am," Hermione said politely, holding out her hand. "Pardon me for the intrusion."

"Not at all, dear," Mrs Hudson replied, shaking the brunette's hand. "How are you feeling? John told me you lost your memory. Are you tired? Do you need to lie down?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, I'm fine, thank you."

"Then let's get you out of the weather, dear." The landlady motioned toward the sky. "It's freezing and I'm sure you'd like a nice cuppa after spending the afternoon with Sherlock."

"I resent that."

Mrs Hudson ignored him. "Would you like some tea as well, John?"

"If you can spare a cup," the doctor said, following the women inside.

He huffed and stalked into the building, the bags of clothes and pink paper banging against his sides as he walked. Following John up the stairs, Mrs Hudson began giving Hermione the tour of the building.

"Are you sure you want to stay with the lads, dear?" the landlady asked, concerned. "I have room with me if you'd like."

John groaned at Mrs Hudson's words, he rolled his eyes, and Hermione's brows pinched.

"Why wouldn't I want to stay with them?" she asked.

"Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and I are not together," John interjected.

The landlady clicked her tongue. "So you say."

"Don't bother John," he said, dropping the bags onto the floor the minute they all stepped into 221B. Throwing himself onto the couch, he went on, "Unless she catches one of us—you in particular— _in flagrante delicto_ with a woman, she _will_ continue to think that we're together."  
 _  
_"Are these eyeballs?"

He turned his head; Hermione was in the kitchen standing next the now open microwave and pointing at said eyeballs. Quickly, he stood up and rushed to shut the door of the kitchen appliance.

"Yes, and do not touch them. It's an experiment," he explained sharply, steering her back into the living room.

"What's all this lab equipment for?" she went on. "And is that a skull?"

"My experiments, and he's my friend."

"Is he always like this?" she asked John. "Pushy, blunt, and impolite?"

"No, sometimes he's petulant and annoying as well," John replied.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

Mrs Hudson nodded in agreement. "Let's not forget lazy and arrogant."

"Oh don't look so indignant, Sherlock, we're only joking," Hermione said.

He stared at her, scrutinising every little detail about her appearance, ruthlessly searching for a sign that she was lying. In her eyes, though, all he found was warmth and a gentle kind of mirth. Slowly, he released the tension that had bunched in his shoulders, but rather than respond, he strode to his violin.

Lifting the instrument and tucking it under his chin, he closed his eyes and began to play. He was dimly aware of Mrs Hudson leading Hermione and John downstairs for tea, but he turned his attention back to his compositions.

And he played.

Played, played, and played until his mind was no longer a riot of deductions, thoughts, and memories. When calm finally blanketed over his Mind Palace, did he finally stop playing and open his eyes. He set his violin down and when he turned around, there was Hermione.

There, in his chair, she sat, awe written so plainly on her face. She clapped when he was facing her and stood.

"That was brilliant," she murmured. "Truly brilliant, Sherlock."

Flames licked at his cheeks, but roared in his blood. Clearing his throat, he spoke, "Weren't you having tea with John and Mrs Hudson?"  
 _  
_"We've already finished our tea," she replied. "An hour ago, in fact. John went to the shop, and Mrs Hudson is tending to her _hip soothers_."

"And you've just been sitting here for the past hour watching me play?"

"No. I snooped around, found your bedroom and bathroom, and hung my knickers on the door handle."

"You _what_?" He rushed to the bathroom, but stopped in the kitchen when Hermione's laughter reached his ears.

"Merlin, Sherlock, I was only joking. Again," she said between laughs. "Would seeing my knickers hanging in there really bother you that much?"

He arched his brow. "Would leaving the toilet seat up bother you? Or leaving the toothpaste uncapped?"

Hermione chuckled. "I see your point then."

"Why do you say that?" he asked suddenly.

"Say what?" she responded, now examining his books.

"You've sworn to Merlin three times today. Usually when one swears it's an explicative or to a deity, but you swear to a character, from Arthurian legend." he explained. "Why is that?"

Hermione paused, pursing her lips, clearly trying to recall the reason as to why she did so. A minute passed and she turned to him, her gaze dim. "I don't know why. Habit, I guess." She blinked and the forlorn haze in her stare went away. "So, what do you do when you don't have a case?"

"Compose."

"That's it?"

He waved his hand towards the lab equipment on the table. "Experiment."

"...is that all?"

"I shoot the wall."

"...you _shoot_ the wall?"

"Only on occasion." _  
_  
"So you compose, experiment, and shoot the wall when you're not solving cases?" she asked slowly.

"Obviously," he drawled. Her face pinched then. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I—You...reminded me of someone just now," she said.

Intrigue raced up his spine. "Who?"

"I don't know his name, but I just saw his face. He looked like an albino ferret," she muttered darkly.

"Ferret?"

Hermione elaborated, "Well, his face was sort of... pointy and his hair was almost white."

"Friend?" he inquired.

She shook her head. "Not really. I think he was a bully. He looked about thirteen when I remembered his face, and he was smirking—the vile, loathsome, little cockroach."

"Two memories in four days," he mumbled, mostly to himself. "You're making faster progress than I expected."

John stumbled through the door then, arms laden with shopping bags. Swiftly, Hermione moved to help him and the doctor gave her a grateful smile in return.

"Did you buy the whole shop, John? Didn't you leave any eggs for the rest of London?" the brunette said, a teasing smile on her face.

"I just got the bare essentials," John replied. "Eggs, milk, cheese, bread, tea, brown sauce."

"Brown sauce?"

"Mrs Hudson says that Sherlock is terribly fond of bacon butties."

When they both looked to him, he shrugged. "It's bacon." He slid into the seat before his microscope. "I'll need the second shelf of the fridge for an experiment. If you don't want to have to go the shop again, I suggest you leave it empty."

"Does it involve more body parts?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," was all he said. _  
_  
"John, why don't we just use Mrs Hudson fridge for the time being?"

"Good idea." _  
_  
By the resonance of the footsteps, he knew John had gone downstairs, but Hermione had moved to his bedroom. Not ten minutes later, alarms sounded in his Mind Palace and he moved promptly. What he found, for the second time that day, completely gobsmacked him.

His bland, grey sheets were gone, replaced by a lime-green bed spread. The drawers of the chest beside his bed were open, as was door to his wardrobe. His clothes were strewn across his cross his bed and the bags with scented, pink tissue paper.

And there, hanging on his door handle, was a pair of white lace _knickers_.

" _What are you doing woman_?" he shouted.  
 _  
_Hermione poked her head from around the wardrobe door and arched her brow. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm making space for my clothes."

"Not that," he hissed, and pointed a finger at the tiny white knickers on the door. "These!"

"You said I couldn't hang them in the bathroom." Her whiskey-brown eyes twinkled at him. "Last I checked, this wasn't the bathroom."

He sputtered, unable to respond. Part of himself was berating the other for not thinking to make it clear that she couldn't hang her delicates _anywhere_ in 221B. Of course, he ignored the whispers in his chest that offered him risqué responses when he somehow managed to regain his ability to speak coherently.

"Keep your delicates stored in the appropriate places," he said tightly. "I see you've already commandeered my chest of drawers, I ask that you do leave me at least one drawer for my socks. I require them for an experiment and it would be much appreciated if you spared one of _my_ drawers."

"I'll think about it," Hermione hummed, but he knew she would do more than that. She would return his room to its original state and probably only take up two of the chest's five drawers and a fifth of the wardrobe's space for herself.

That innate selflessness was one of the very reasons why he had allowed himself to get close to her fourteen years ago. Her warmth, affection, and understanding that she had offered him so freely had drew him in as fire did to moths. Blinded by her brilliance, he had not known of the danger she was until it had been too late.

She had burned him, and he had never forgotten.

With a nod, he left the room and flung himself onto the couch once more. John found him like that ten minutes later, staring at the ceiling, but the doctor said nothing and just headed through the kitchen towards his room. The murmurings of his flatmates' conversation reached his ears, but his tiredness kept him from paying attention.

* * *

He awoke several hours later to find the night sky outside the windows, a fire roaring in the hearth, and a blanket draped over him. Groggily, he stood and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his palms. Slightly more human, he shuffled to the toilet, relieved to note that there were no knickers hanging on the door, the shower curtain rail, or the door handle.

After completing his business, he quietly stepped into his bedroom. He paused, however, at the sight of Hermione fast asleep on his bed.

Even her sleeping habits hadn't changed. She still hogged the covers and curled herself around his pillow. Beneath her head, she tucked her hands, her knees drawn into her abdomen. The errant curl he used to tuck away fell over her nose, and from time to time, she would scrunch it in irritation.

Hands moving without his consent, he tucked the lock of hair behind her ear. Carefully, his fingers smoothed the furrow between her brows before he drew his hands away. He stepped back from the bed despite the seizing of his heart in his chest.

 _I don't need her. I don't need her. I don't need her._

 _I don't need..._

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE** | I'd like to thank you all in advance if you take the time to support the story and/or leave some feedback! I appreciate it a lot you guys!

 _Thanks for reading!_


	3. TEASPOONS AND FEES

CHAPTER THREE

TEASPOONS AND FEES

* * *

 _August 1995_

"Please? Pretty please, Sherlock?" Hermione begged. "Just this once, yeah? I'll get the snacks."

"You said that the _last_ time we went to the cinema," he said around the Sugar Quill in his mouth. "That was a horrible film by the way. I'd like my money back for having to sit through _that_ travesty."

She scoffed. "It wasn't that bad." He stared at her until she caved and winced. "Okay, so maybe it wasn't that good of a movie."

"It was a bad film," he said. "And a rather poor adaptation of Austen's Emma. Even if it was only loosely based on it."

"You didn't like the movie at all, did you?"

"Not at all."

His lips puckered, which sent Hermione into a fit of giggles. Unable to keep his frown on his face for long, he laughed with her and enjoyed the treats she brought. They were very good, and he wished he could see the little town near her school where she'd purchased them.

Hermione had described it to him in detail, and in his mind, he pictured a quaint, little village with tall chimneystacks, a myriad of shops, and a magnificent lake in the distance. She hadn't told him the names of her school or the village, but she had described to him a rather wonderful picture of them.

In the three weeks since he'd met her, they'd become fast friends. Both frighteningly intelligent, they usually debated or engaged in spars of wit. They were never bored with each other, and while they were both smart, there were times when they talked about the asinine and inane topics; they'd once argued over whether bacon butties tasted better with brown sauce or ketchup.

There was no doubt in his mind that Hermione was his best friend. She understood him like no other, and didn't let his sharp tongue and haughty attitude bother her. Most amazingly, however, was the fact that she seemed to trust him so completely in the little time that they'd known each other.

He was still cautious about letting her know everything about him, but she never pushed him. Instead, she regaled him with tales of her childhood and classes, or stories about her friends and family. And her kindness was what he liked about her, because where he was cold, she was warm.

Of course, for all her virtues, Hermione had her vices. She was bossy and swotty and the most stubborn little thing he had ever seen. Sometimes, he swore he saw her hair spark whenever they debated, but he figured he just imagined it—her hair did get abnormally frizzy, however, whenever she was riled.

Moreover, she had the most annoying habit of biting her lip. Every time she did, it would get pink and plump and make _him_ think of nipping it instead of her. He would have to look away and berate himself for thinking of Hermione _in that way_ , because they were friends, and he wouldn't risk their friendship by crossing that line no matter how much he was aching to do so.

"Mione!"

And just like that, his good mood vanished. He glowered at Teaspoon, and the redhead glared right back as he made his way over to them.

Another thing about Hermione that bothered him was the fact that he wasn't her only best friend like she was his. If he could have his way, he'd be her only friend, but sadly, it wasn't to be. Hermione had other friends beside him, and two other _best_ friends—Harry Potter and the Red Teaspoon.

She'd introduced Teaspoon as Ron, but he called the redhead 'Teaspoon' because of Hermione's comment about him having the emotional range of said utensil. That, and because it was more than obvious that Teaspoon liked Hermione in the same way he liked her. However, neither of them was willing to make a move for the same reason of not wanting to lose their friendship with the brunette.

It didn't help that Teaspoon was just as possessive over Hermione as he was. When he'd first met the boy two weeks ago, the redhead hadn't bothered to hide his dislike of him—much to his amusement, because Hermione had berated Teaspoon for his lack of manners. He, on the other hand, had politely introduced himself and made an effort to be civil with the redhead—if Hermione had given him a hug in thanks for his efforts of civility then that was just a coincidence.

After their initial meeting, however, Teaspoon had taken to accompanying Hermione to the park whenever they met. Deductions! He'd never been so pissed off in his life, and that was saying a lot considering Mycroft tended to piss him off by simply existing. The redhead had constantly made snide remarks on every little thing about him, and no matter how many times Hermione had told him to shut it, Teaspoon _had kept on talking_.

Eventually, he'd snapped and unleashed a slew of insults that even a real teaspoon could understand. It'd surprised him tremendously when Hermione stayed with him after the redhead had left in a huff. She'd scolded him for being so harsh, of course, but had then explained that she hadn't found Teaspoon's behaviour acceptable. Though she'd made him promise to go easier on the redhead next time, which, thankfully, there hadn't been.

Until now at least.

"Mione, Harry's coming today," Teaspoon said, excitement and worry gleaming in his eyes. "Come on, mum wants us all to be there when he gets here later." When Teaspoon made a grab for her hand, Hermione pressed closer into his side instead.

His blood roared in his ears as warmth tore through his veins at the sensation of her soft frame pressing so closely to his. The moment her sweet scent filled his senses, he knew he couldn't deny what his heart already knew.

Ever since Hermione had stayed by his side that fateful encounter with Teaspoon, he'd been yearning for her in the way lovers yearned for their other half. He wanted Hermione as more than his friend, and he didn't know how much longer he could take without her as such.

"Thank you for keeping me up to speed, Ronald," she said tersely. "But as you can see, I'm busy having a conversation with Sherlock. If Harry is coming later then I will return to the house later. As he isn't here _at this moment_ , I don't need to come back to the house at this moment."

Teaspoon's cheeks turned pink at Hermione's refusal to leave him. "Why are you even spending so much time with this bloke, Mione? He's a muggle!"

"Pardon?" he asked, mildly offended at the ridiculous name Teaspoon just called him. "I'm a what?"

"Sherlock is my friend, Ronald, just like you and Harry are my friends," Hermione replied, ignoring him. "I happen to enjoy his company very much, and just because you don't like it or him, that doesn't mean that I'm going to stop being his friend. Now leave before I have to go tell your mum you're acting like Malfoy. I hope you haven't forgotten that I'm a muggle as well."

The Red Teaspoon sputtered, clearly unable to reply, and stormed away with red ears. Hermione huffed and dropped her head onto his shoulder, making his heart drummed harder against his sternum. Deductions, she was going to be the death of him.

"What's a muggle?" he asked, trying not to focus on the humming of his body.

Much to his disappointment and relief, Hermione lifted her head off his shoulder to look up at him. "A muggle is just someone like you and me—extremely boring," she explained blandly.

" _Boring?_ Me, boring? I am not boring!" he cried with mock indignation.

"Oh but you are, my poor, deluded sir," she replied, mirth filling her gaze.

"I'll show you boring!"

With that, he set aside his Sugar Quill, twisted his body, and began tickling her. Hermione shrieked and scooted away from him, but he followed her, his fingers wiggling against her sides. He laughed when she pleaded for mercy, but he didn't let up.

Eventually, the cramping in his fingers made him cease, and he relented.

They were both breathing heavily when he stopped tickling her. In his bloodstream, joy hummed and surged. He was burden-less in that moment, and she was the only thing that kept his world bright and kept him grounded.

It was then, however, that he registered their rather precarious position.

Somehow, he managed to get Hermione flat on her back with him hovering over her on the bench. His knees were outside her thighs and his hands above her shoulders. Hair, not entirely brown but not fully gold, curled and framed pink-stained cheeks. Gleaming were her eyes, delight evident in them. No longer were they just a plain brown colour, but now, they were a wondrous amber, streaked, threaded, and ribboned with gold.

The world blurred around the both of them. Everything within him screaming for her, to kiss her, taste her, breathe her in. Within his throat, a lump formed when she smiled softly at him. If he hadn't been lost to her before, he was at that very moment.

The last vestiges of his control slipped when her eyes flickered to his lips. He met her gaze and told her without words what his intentions were. When the flush of her cheeks darkened and she nodded ever so slightly, he swallowed the dryness away from his throat. With that one look, it was all over and claimed her mouth with his.

Their lips touched, and it was unlike anything he'd ever known.

She was what he imagined warmth to taste like—light and sweet and comforting. Under his lips, hers were so damn soft and fit so nicely against his. All he'd kept locked within him burst forth then.

His hand tangled into her hair while the other held him over her on the bench. Hot and deep, the kiss had his body shaking, _wanting_. It had him keening, hands grasping curls of golden brown harder and starving for more. Then he touched his tongue tentatively to her plush lower lip, and almost sighed in relief when she parted her lips to do touch her tongue to his.

This was gravitation—sinking, falling, down and down until the impact came. It wasn't temptation, or enticement, but gravity. A free fall where fighting was useless. Burned, plummeting, he fell, and let it happen. He ravished, drank, _needed_ , until the impact came.

A groan reverberated in his chest, and he pulled away for air. Breathing heavily now, he drank in deep gulps of air, blood white-hot in his veins. Their breaths mingled between them, and as he looked down at her, fire and satisfaction welled up inside his chest at her dishevelled state. Her eyes were sparkling with joy, and he knew that she must've seen that same joy reflected in his, for she beamed widely at him.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that," he said quietly, running his nose against hers gently.

"Probably not as long as I have," she confessed, her ink-stained fingers caressing his face.

"I beg to differ." He nipped her fingers when they feathered across his lower lip. "But, why don't we agree to disagree, yes?"

She giggled. "All right then."

"Where do we go from here?" he asked suddenly. "I'll admit that I'd like for us to be more than friends, I don't want to get my hopes up if you don't feel the same."

Hermione bit her lip, uncertainty overcoming her features before that fiery determination he was so familiar with made itself known. "Well, then you're just going to have to take me to the cinema then, aren't you?"

His brows furrowed. "What? Why?"

"Isn't that what a boyfriend does when he takes his girlfriend out on a date?" she asked boldly, though there was a faint glimmer of hesitance in her eyes.

Instead of answering her, he kissed her once more, this time with all the desire and affection he had for her, which was quite a lot. Hermione responded with as much eagerness and gentleness as him, and even twined her ink-stained fingers into his inky curls.

Pulling away, he grinned widely, and said, "When do you want to go then?"

"Really?" she asked, elated.

When he nodded, she squealed adorably and tackled him with a hug. Their combined momentum, on the other hand, sent them over the edge of the bench and onto the ground. The air rushed from his lungs when Hermione landed on top of him, and yet, he couldn't find it in himself to be anything other than rapturous and content. His arms curled around her lithe frame and held her to him as she babbled on about their date.

When the realisation dawned on him that this would be his _first_ date with _his girlfriend_ , it was both terrifying and enthralling to know. Playing with her hair, he absorbed the scents, sounds, and sensations fluttering around him into his heart, storing them in that place where Hermione unknowingly had fashioned for herself.

"It's getting late," she murmured sometime later, having finished babbling a while ago.

Glancing at the pink sky, he frowned. "It is." Against his will, his clutched her closer to him, unwilling to let her go, to let her leave him even if was for the night.

"Harry's coming today," she went on. "I told Ron that I would be back before he got here."

"I know," he said, still playing with her hair. Then, more quietly than ever before, he whispered, "I don't want you to go yet."

Hermione seemed to try to burrow herself into him as she nuzzled her head into his shoulder and held him harder. "I don't want to go either."

Despite wanting to keep her with him, _for himself_ , and not share her with others, he knew that he had to let her go to her other friends. She had made a promise, and he admired that she always kept her promises. So despite the roaring verdant flames in his bloodstream and the fervent need to keep her with him, he slowly loosened his hold around her.

"Come on," he said softly, urging her to sit up. "It's time for us to go home."

Her brown gaze met his, and it was dim. "I know, but I wish it wasn't."

"Walk me to the station?"

Her smile was small, but shining. "All right then."

They stood and helped each other brush dirt off their clothes. Hermione gathered her sweets, and when she turned to him, he held out his hand. For a moment, she simply stared at his hand. He began pulling his hand back, his throat tight and cheeks hot, but she took it and wove their fingers together, giving it a little squeeze.

Silently, they headed to the Tube station, and he basked in her presence beside him. A little grin graced his lips when turned to Hermione and found her beaming back at him.

It was odd, being so... _close_ with another person, but it wasn't at all what he imagined it to be. He'd imagined that it would be burdensome, tiring. That he would be like the Titan Atlas, condemned to shouldering the weight of the sky.

With Hermione though, he stood on top of that world instead. She liberated him from himself. Where he once feared to care deeply, he learned sometimes it was worth the fear of risk. Fear had ruled him ever since Redbeard, and he hadn't risked himself or his heart during all that time.

Meeting Hermione was like finding hidden treasure. He'd found something worth more than riches of gold or jewels. In her, he'd found a friend and kindred spirit, and rather than turn him away when he'd risked himself for her friendship, she'd taken his proffered olive branch and held onto it with both hands.

Their friendship had ignited as quickly as raw sodium in water. Discussions and debates made up their interactions at first. When they'd realised that neither of them would cow to the other, they moved on to do other things normal teenagers did like go to the cinema, get ice cream, or even ice skate. And somewhere between enjoying the time he spent with his very first friend, he'd allowed his feelings to deepen without knowing it.

Today, he'd taken a risk and their relationship had changed. He thanked the Science of Deduction that she returned his feelings. If she hadn't, his heart might've hardened and he probably would've pushed her away because of the rejection.

Now they were standing in front of the station, and he knew that she didn't want him to go as much as he did. Ignoring his wants, he let go of her hand, but trailed his fingers across the lines of her palm before pulling away completely. Her lips pouted ever so slightly then, and he couldn't resist bending his head to kiss it away.

Stepping back, he smiled, but before he could turn to leave, Hermione was in his arms and trying to burrow into him again. He laughed softly, but wrapped her into his embrace and inhaling that sweet scent of her. Beneath his sternum, his heart whispered that this was home.

* * *

 _February 2010_

"So you shot the man?" Hermione asked, after she'd finished reading John's blog about the forced suicides and cabbie.

"How else was I going to save his arse?" John asked, nodding at him. "He went with the cabbie all alone, no back up, and didn't even let anyone know where he was going."

"Why did you go by yourself?" she asked, turning to him now.

He plucked the strings of his violin, not responding immediately simply to irritate her, but unlike John, her brows didn't furrow in impatience nor did her lips curl. Instead, she was looking at him with curiosity burning in her eyes. That looked warmed the spaced inside his ribcage, but his face remained impassive.

Shrugging his shoulders, he replied, "Why not?"

"Well you could have died for one thing," she said. "And for all your brilliance Sherlock, that was a really stupid move. You're not infallible or invincible."

Her doors in his mind opened, and his chest contracted tightly, astounding him. "You think I'm brilliant?"

"Yes, but you have your moments." She waved her hand at the laptop screen. "Like this one."

He sniffed, turning his head away from her. "You would have done the same."

A bark of a laugh fell from her lips. "You don't know enough about me to deduce that, so don't even try, Smarty-Pants."

 _I know you better than you know_. " _Smarty-Pants_! Did you really just call me that? John, did you hear her?"

The doctor rolled his eyes, but did not take his eyes off the newspaper in his hands. "Yes, yes, I did."

Silence passed as he waited for John to reprimand Hermione, but all he received was a smirk from the brunette. "Aren't you going to tell her that name calling is childish?" he inquired, incredulous, but muttered, "You certainly tell me enough times."

"Did she hurt your feelings?" John responded.

"No—"

"—Then I don't need to reprimand her, do I? After all, you two are _adults_ , and you can work out your problems together," the doctor said.

He sputtered while Hermione laughed. When he got his bearings back, he glared at the woman, but she merely grinned widely at him.

Mrs Hudson came in then, bundled in her coat and scarf. "I'm off to the hardware store. Sherlock took my gardening gloves again." At this, she shot him a pointed look.

"It's for an—"

"—Experiment," they all chorused.

"Would you like me to go with you?" John offered.

"Oh no, dear," Mrs Hudson replied. "I don't want to cause you any trouble."

"It would be no trouble at all, Mrs Hudson." The doctor grabbed his coat. "Besides, I haven't got much to do today, but I'll be more than happy to accompany you on your errands."

The landlady gave his flatmate a beaming smile. "Why thank you, John. Maybe you could tell me more about how your job search is going."

With that, they said their farewells. He immediately stood and rushed to the window. Waiting for them to disappear around the corner, he rushed up to John's room to look for the doctor's first aid kit; it wasn't very hard to find it, and he brought it back downstairs.

Hermione was just as he left her, reading "A Study in Pink" on John's blog. Striding to her, he yanked the laptop out of her grasp, and ignoring her queries, he shoved the first aid kit into her hands.

"What's this for?" she questioned, eyeing the kit warily.

"You must change your bandages lest you get infection," he said, plopping back into his armchair.

"I just got out of the hospital yesterday, Sherlock. Don't you think I know that I have to change my bandages?" She shook her head, but began opening the kit. "Will you help me?"

Blood rushed down from head to the very tips of his toes. The room dropped several degrees in temperature, he was sure. Thousands of thoughts flooded his Mind Palace, but he was only vaguely aware of them. Instead, he focused on the wild palpitations of that feeble organ in his vest and scowled.

"Help you with what?" he asked sharply.

"With replacing the bandages."

Heat rushed to the tips of his ears. "I'm sure you're quite capable of doing it yourself."

She huffed then left to the loo, and he was able to breathe again immediately. Standing, he strode to the window and peaked outside. When he didn't see his associate, he sighed and dropped back into his armchair.

Hermione's huffs sounded from the bathroom, and he allowed his lips to curve upward. Eventually, after ten minutes of swearing to Merlin and Morgana, the brunette came storming out of the loo and back into the living room.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, holding the kit up.

"Why?" he responded.

"So I can put it back. I know you took it from John's room," she went on.

He waved his hand. "Just leave it. I'll put it back later."

"Really?" The disbelief was clear in her voice. " _You_ 'll put it back?"

Unwittingly, he straightened. "You don't think I will."

It wasn't a question, because despite the short time of their re-acquaintance, or acquaintance in Hermione's case, she seemed to know him almost as well as John or Mrs Hudson. He had a theory, of course. He reasoned that she was quickly growing accustomed to him was because, on a subconscious level, she remembered him. And every time that thought floated around in his Mind Palace, something would swell inside his ribcage and press insistently against his sternum.

When that unyielding force thrashed wildly in the bone pen of his torso, he ruthlessly fought it. That same force, which he refused to name or acknowledge, had played a part of his destruction fourteen years ago. He would not allow it destroy him again.

 _Never again._

He stood then and took the kit from her. "I will put it back," was all he said before leaving the room to return John's first aid kit.

Upon his return to the main room, he found it empty, and he began to scour 221B for Hermione. Searching his room and bathroom then finding them empty, his pulse faltered and thrummed feverishly. Quickly, he went downstairs to see if she had gone to Mrs Hudson's flat to eat, as John had stored the groceries in their landlady's fridge rather than theirs upstairs. Ice trickled down his spine and speared through him when he found no sign of Hermione.

The doors of Hermione's wing in his Mind Palace burst open, and he staggered at the onslaught of sensations and memories. It became harder for him to breathe as he remembered.

 _That_ day filled his senses and he was there again.

Dread as heavy as gold and lead suffused him, filling up every cavity and every pore of his being until the weight of the world crashed upon his shoulders. It shook him beyond his bones and deeper inside him. He clutched at his shirt, unable to stop the fearsome contractions of that organ in his chest. The walls of his Mind Palace faltered under the onslaught of emotions until they cracked and screeched in protest at the burden that bore down on them.

"Sherlock, what are you— Are you okay?"

The sound of her voice tore through his self-destruction. She was there then, hands on his biceps and amber-brown eyes filled with concern and met his. In the midst of the chaos, her touch and scent registered in his emotion-addled brain.

When they did, he was grasping her shoulders and tearing into her appearance with his eyes. They darted frantically across her form, ripping deductions from her without respite or regret. He was absolutely ruthless with his deductions, not even trying to hide the fact that he was analysing her.

 _Clothes rumpled. Sweat on brow. Her hands are dirty. Back door's open._

"You were tending to Mrs Hudson's marijuana seedlings," he said tersely. "Why?"

With wide eyes, she replied, "Because she asked me to do so."

"What? When?"

"When you'd gone upstairs to John's room to get his first aid kit."

His brows furrowed. "No, she didn't."

"Yes she did. She shouted it from downstairs just before she left the building." Biting her lip, she went on. "Are you okay, Sherlock? You look like you'd just lost something important that you couldn't get it back."

He shook his head, releasing her shoulders and stepping away. "It was nothing. I was just looking for you."

"Oh, well, what did you need?" she inquired.

"Nothing," he muttered. "Nothing at all."

With that, he turned sharply and stalked out of Mrs Hudson's flat and back upstairs to 221B. Once there, he inhaled a deep, shuddering breath and forced his Mind Palace to rebuild and repair the damage his panic had caused. He went to his violin and returned to his compositions. Immediately, the jumble of his mind straightened and he slipped into a state of cool objectiveness.

Time passed him by, but he paid little mind. After an hour, John returned with Mrs Hudson and he ceased his playing. He set down his instrument just as John entered their flat.

"You've been gone long," he drawled.

"Mrs Hudson was indecisive," the doctor replied. "Oh, there's a homeless man outside asking for you, Sherlock."

Without so much as a word to John, he was rushing to grab his coat and scarf. He was speeding down the stairs and out the front door.

"Mr Holmes."

Turning, he found the informant he had paid to find information on Hermione's attack and her assailant. The grubby man was standing stiffly against the railing on the other side of Speedy's, eyes darting rapidly around them. He strode towards his informant, also taking care to note all of his surroundings.

"Mr Holmes," the man repeated once he was closer. "The information you need...well...you have a witness."

Excitement surged through him. "Really? Excellent. Take me to him." The homeless man shifted on his feet, not meeting his eyes. "What? What is it? Aren't you going to take me to him?"

His informant cleared his throat. "Thing is...uh...sir...the man's gone mad."

"Mad? What do you mean by mad?"

"He...er...you'll wanna hear the story yourself."

He nodded, allowing the homeless man to lead him. They passed Charing Cross Road and a rather dreary pub until they were in an alley on the other block.

In the darkest corner of the alleyway was another grubby man, only while the one had led him was sane, the other was muttering to himself and trembling. He strode swiftly to the man and crouched so that their eyes were at the same level. Beside him, his associate also crouched, but was closer to the other homeless man.

"Oi, Charlie," his informant said louder than he needed. "You need to tell Mr Holmes about what you saw." Charlie shook his head, pressing harder against the wall. "Come on, Charlie, Mr Holmes wants to know what you saw on Friday."

"T-They 'ad s-sticks," Charlie finally stuttered after a while.

"Sticks?" he asked quickly. "What about them?"

Charlie looked up from the ground and met his gaze. "The sticks shot lights an' sparks."

He inquired further. "Light? Do you mean that they had laser pointers?"

"N-No. They shot different lights, red an' green an' blue, a-an—" Charlie shook his head furiously. "—they was sayin' odd things. Abracadabra. Protect-o. Re-lash-ee-o."

Mulling over this information, he allowed his thoughts to organise a moment. "Tell me exactly what you saw happen on Friday night," he said finally.

Charlie's eyes clouded over as he recounted his tale. "I was headin' back to me alley from askin' for change all day 'cause it was rainin' hard. I passed Charing Cross when I saw a bloke an' his bird comin' out o' that pub, that dark one.

"They was ahead o' me when the bird stopped an' the bloke did too. Then the bloke grabbed her 'round the neck but she elbowed him an' managed to get away. The next thing I knew they 'ad out their sticks an' shoutin' at each other. I hid next to a empty cab so they 'adn't saw me but I saw 'em.

"Then the bloke waved the stick around an' there was light shootin' outta it. The bird ducked an' waved her stick an' there was more lights 'til she slipped an' the bloke shot some red light an' hit the woman.

"She hit the ground an' dropped her stick. The bloke kicked it away an' was sayin' somethin' else when an' his stick glowed then 'he shouted somethin' funny when the bird shouted somethin' too then there was light from her an' light from him an' the lights hit each other which flied back to 'em instead.

"I 'ad to look away 'cause the light was so bright an' then somethin' else 'ad happened that I 'adn't saw an' then there was thunder but no lightnin'. When I looked back, the bird was gone."

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. "Gone? What do you mean gone?"

"She just disappeared," Charlie said. "Like she was never there in the first place."

He stood there, determined to make some sense of the story this man had told him. "Show me where the altercation happened." When Charlie shook his head, he grabbed the grubby man and hauled him up. "Show me. Now."

Still shaking, Charlie stumbled his way out of the alley and he followed closely with his informant doing the same. They journeyed back towards Charing Cross and Charlie stopped when they were half a block away from the dark pub. Charlie pointed a grimy finger at two empty storefronts across the street.

"I saw 'em there," the man said.

Quickly, he strode across the street and examined the area.

The sidewalk was clean from the rain, so there was no bloodstain if Hermione had hit the ground. However, there were odd, cracked indentations on the ground and the buildings' walls, as if someone had taken a jackhammer and broken into the concrete and brick. Aside from that, he found no other indication that Charlie's story actually happened.

"What happened to the man?" he asked, turning to the homeless men now standing nearby.

"Dunno," the man murmured. "I 'ightailed it outta there before the man could find me."

"Did you at least see what he looked like?" he inquired further, his tone urgent.

When Charlie shook his head, he exhaled deeply and pulled some bank notes from his pocket, giving a fifty to each man. Without so much as a thank you, he left them and headed back to Baker Street.

His Mind Palace worked to make some sense of Charlie's tale. There was no doubt in his mind that the man was mad. The story had no credibility at all. Of course, he disregarded the odd indentations in the sidewalk and buildings as there was nothing to suggest that these "light-shooting sticks" had actually caused them. Growling, he shoved his hands into his coat pocket and planned his next course of action.

Upon turning the corner onto Baker Street, he jolted to a halt when Hermione climbed out of a shiny black car. Ducking back around the building, he waited a few moments before casting a glance back. He saw that the luxury car was gone, he hurried to 221.

Flinging the front door open and slamming it shut behind him, he stormed up the stairs to his flat and straight towards Hermione, who was sitting in his chair. She jumped up when he was close enough, and before he could say anything, she shoved an envelope into his chest.

"Here," she said. "This is from your brother."

"What?" he replied, disbelief colouring his voice, but he took the envelope from her.

"Has anyone ever told you that your brother's an arse?" she inquired, her brows pinching.

He couldn't help it—he laughed.

And laughed until his abdominal muscles were aching and tears were falling from his eyes. In the span of a morning, his emotions had burst free and he had gotten nowhere regarding Hermione's case. He was utterly knackered and it wasn't even noon yet.

"N-No," he stuttered between breaths. "No one h-has ever told me that." Wiping moisture away from his eyes, he gave a frowning Hermione a grin. "They're usually too busy thinking that about me let alone saying it about him."

"Well, I'm sure you'll be glad to know that your brother knows only just a little more about me than I do about myself," she went on.

The amusement thrumming in him dampened instantly. "What do you mean? And how did you meet him let alone know he was my brother?"

"My file is classified." Hermione smiled wryly at him. "And your brother seemed very frustrated about that because, apparently, only the Prime Minister has access to my file. That annoys him because he doesn't have the ability to get it," she explained. "And his car pulled up when Mrs Hudson asked me if I wouldn't mind picking her up some coffee from Speedy's. As for knowing he was your brother, well, you have the same know-it-all attitude, Smarty-Pants. It was rather obvious to see the relation between you two if I do say so myself."

He rolled his eyes. "What did Mycroft know you that you didn't already know about yourself?"

"I went to a private boarding school up in Scotland somewhere until I was eighteen. I graduated with the best marks in the school's history and I was at the top of my class," she said proudly. "After school, I got a job working for the government, but the details about my school and job are classified. Your brother thinks I'm some sort of spy."

Snorting his amusement, he replied, "You're not a spy. You lack the finesse."

Her face contorted into a mask of mock indignation. "Excuse me?"

"What's this then?" he asked, ignoring her and waving the envelope around.

The grin on her face was positively beaming. "Well if your brother thinks that I'm sort of spy then why not charge him for my services?" She nodded to the envelope. "Want to split the fee?"

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE** | Check out the photo album for the story guys! There's a link on my profile. It's small, but it'll get bigger as the fic goes on. Right now there's the story's cover, a banner, and a layout of 221B I found on Google.

Thank you if you take time to support the story! I really appreciate your support guys!

 _Thanks for reading!_


	4. PASSWORDS AND SANDWICHES

**STANDARD DISCLAIMER** | _Direct quotes from SHERLOCK italicized and *'d._

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

PASSWORDS AND SANDWICHES

* * *

 _March 2010_

He was bored—there was no doubt about it. John had gone to the shop, Mrs Hudson was next door with Mrs Turner, and Hermione had gone to Speedy's for breakfast. There was no one in any of the flats, save for him.

In his hand, he held John's gun and waved around before aiming it at the smiley on his wall. He narrowed his eyes at the mocking smile on the wall's face, and removed the safety.

"Any last words, Sir Dimple?" he asked. When he received no reply, he went on, "Pity."

"Sherlock Holmes! You better not be thinking about shooting the wall!"

Hermione's shrieks didn't startle him, for he'd heard her coming up the stairs. Of course, he'd aimed the gun at the wall just to rile her as he enjoyed seeing her hair frizz and her eyes spark. Whenever she was angry, which wasn't very often, she always berated him. During those times, he would purposely manage to infuriate her further with some caustic comment and they would argue until she stormed out of the room.

"I wasn't _thinking_ about shooting the wall," he drawled, playing with the gun's safety. "I was going to do it. Until you spared Sir Dimple's life that is."

Her brows furrowed. "Sir Dimple?"

Removing the safety again, he aimed the gun at the wall and fired. He smirked when Hermione jumped in surprised. "It's 'Dimples' now."

The brunette growled and stormed over to him, ripping the firearm from his hand. She replaced the safety and removed the cartridge before pointing the weapon at him. "I'm beginning to think that your brother was right about living with you," she said, waving the gun at him with disapproval scrawled across her face. Crossing her arms over her chest, she muttered, "Really, I don't know why I'm still here considering I almost got my head cut off half an hour ago."

"I did tell you to stay in the room, didn't I?" he said, brow arched.

She huffed and left the room, most likely to return John's gun to his room. When she was gone, he sighed deeply and frowned. Now that he didn't have John's gun, and since he was too lazy to get his, he had nothing to do.

"Hermione, I need my laptop!" he shouted as he heard her coming down the stairs.

"So? What do you want me to do about it?" she asked upon returning to the main room.

"I need my laptop," he reiterated. When she merely stared at him with that blasted twinkle in her eye, he said, not even bothering to keep his annoyance from his voice, "Will you please get it for me?"

"Have you any trouble walking?" she inquired, striding to John's chair and plopping into it.

Another deep sigh fell from his lips. "No."

She went on, "Are you in the middle of an experiment that would end in catastrophe if you removed your attention from it even for a second?"

"No," he replied, eyes narrowing at her.

"So now that we've established that you are in fact capable of walking—" She tapped his loafers with her trainers, and he moved his foot out of her reach in response. "—and that you're not focused on a life-threatening experiment—" The woman cast a pointed glance at his lab equipment on the kitchen table. "—you _can_ get up and get your laptop yourself."

He huffed loudly and plucked a book from the end table beside him, and pretended to lose himself in it. Covertly, he watched Hermione smile at him and his throat tightened at the warm affection in her gaze. The smile was still on her face when she stood and went to their bedroom—though it was still his despite the fact that Hermione slept in his bed.

When she was gone, he dropped the pretence of reading and slipped into his Mind Palace. He wandered through the halls and corridors of his inner sanctum to make sure all was neat and organised, delete tidbits of information he did not think useful, and check on the equilibrium of his mind; seemingly, all was well.

Unknowingly, he'd strayed to Hermione's wing. By the time, he realised what he'd done, two massive, crimson doors with gilded lions towered before him. Reaching for the handle, he let his hand rest on the doorknob rather than try to open it.

It'd been almost two months since Hermione's attack, and he was still no closer to finding her attacker or solving her case. She had, however, remembered a total of nine memories, including the two about her professor and childhood bully. Those memories were rather insignificant to him, as they were mostly about her life either before or after their time spent together. Still, she remembered some faces of her loved ones—a group of redheads, a flamboyantly-dressed old-man, or a fairy-like blonde—and events that she had gone to—a Christmas dance, book shopping with her parents for school, a beautiful wedding. Much of her memory was still inaccessible to her, and him by extension, but that was inconsequential.

He steadfastly refused to acknowledge that burning in the centre of his upper torso whenever he thought about what would happen when she remembered everything; or at least managed to remember one of her best friends, Harry Potter in particular. If she did, then it wouldn't be very hard to find Potter, because he knew—Mycroft wasn't the only one with connections in the government—that Potter's relatives lived in Little Whinging. Moreover, thanks to his homeless network, he was also knew that Potter visited his cousin every Saturday evening at one of the local pubs.

The slam of the front door drew him out from within his Mind Palace. He gave the illusion that he had his focus on his book by holding the tome up to obscure his face just slightly, but in actuality, he was watching the door of the flat. In the next minute, John came storming into the main room, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The doctor then narrowed his gaze and carefully looked around the room.

" _You took your time_ ," he drawled.*

" _Yeah, I didn't get the shopping_ ," John said tightly.*

He dropped his façade, and the book a little, then. " _What? Why not?_ "*

" _Because I had a row, in the shop, with the chip-and-PIN machine_ ," his flatmate replied tetchily.*

The corners of his lips twitched, and he fought to keep his amusement off his face. " _You...you had a row with a machine?_ "*

John looked thoroughly abashed. " _Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?_ "*

Nodding his head towards the kitchen, he said, " _Take my card_."*

" _You could always go yourself, you know. You've been sitting there all morning—you've not even moved since I left_ ," John said, to which he responded with a hum.*

His flatmate went on to ask about the Jaria Diamond case. After kicking the sword under his chair further away from John's view, he answered the doctor's questions while reminiscing about the altercation of the afternoon.

When he'd refused the client, he really hadn't expected them to send a battle-dressed Sikh warrior to "persuade" him into taking the case. The moment the man had unsheathed his single-edged, curved sword, he'd shouted for Hermione to stay in the room. Of course, she hadn't listened and had almost lost her head when she entered the kitchen.

His pulse had sped and fire had roared in his blood when he'd realised how much of a threat the robed man had posed to Hermione. So, he'd swiftly dispatched the man. Then, he'd managed to convince the brunette to go down to Speedy's for some breakfast in order for her to get out of the flat and gather her wits from her near-death experience.

When John left to the shop again, he moved the table against the wall. Opening John's laptop, he spent less than a minute trying to figure out what his flatmate's password would be before typing in "first do no harm" sans spaces, which was a phrase many thought to be a part of the Hippocratic Oath.

He had just managed to sign in to his email account when Hermione came out of the room with his laptop in her hands. The sight gave him pause, and his jaw fell open a little bit. His computer was in her grasp, and by the focus of her eyes, she using it, meaning that she had managed to figure out _his password_.

" _What in the nine circles of hell are you doing?_ " he shouted.

"Did you know that there's a Chinese circus in town?" Hermione replied, not looking up from the device. "Oh, and there's to be an auction for two Ming vases."

"What?" he asked, his mind jumping between figuring out how she figured out his password to making sense of what she had said.

"And that singer, Ricky something, just announced he was gay," she continued as she took settled herself into John's armchair. "It's all over Twitter apparently."

He ignored her and focused on the situation at hand—or more specifically, her hand. "How did you manage to figure out my password?"

"The same way you managed to figure out John's," she responded with a pointed look at the other computer. "You know, 'God save the Queen' isn't a very creative password."

"And how did you know that was my password?" he question, intrigue and irritation warring inside his skull.

"You've played it enough times. I figured 'why not try it?' and voilà!" She grinned at him. "Try something more challenging next time, yeah?"

He sputtered incoherently, to which Hermione's grin widened substantially. Rather than take offence for her amusement at his expense, the sight of that ever-present warm affection in her gaze eased the tension in his shoulders. Swallowing the sudden dryness of his throat away, he turned his attention back to John's laptop.

An hour later, his flatmate returned with the shopping. Hermione slammed his computer shut, causing him to wince. When she apologised while moving to help John, he found himself not plotting to annoy her later. Deleting those thoughts, he focused on computer screen and his email.

"Is that _my_ — Is Sherlock using my computer?" John asked.

"Yep," Hermione replied. "But if it makes you feel any better, I managed to figure out his laptop's password."

He huffed testily. "You got lucky."

"What is it?" John asked, ignoring him.

"'God save the Queen,'" the woman replied, also ignoring him.

The doctor snorted. "I should have figured. He plays it enough times."

"That's what she said too," he muttered.

From the corner of his eye, he watched John stalk over to him and snatch the computer away. "Why were you using my computer in the first place?" the doctor asked, moving to his armchair.

"Because he couldn't be bothered to get up to get his from the bedroom," Hermione answered for him, picking up _his_ laptop before John could sit on it.

She dropped into _his_ chair then and he frowned at her. Winking cheekily at him, she opened the device once again and went about her business.

"I really need a job," John grumbled, looking through a pile of mail.

Before he could open his mouth to say anything let alone breathe, Hermione shot him a warning glance, sparks dancing in her eyes. Wisely, he didn't say anything at all.

"Why don't you try the local surgery? I'm sure they could always use an extra hand," Hermione said, shutting _his_ computer and handing it to him without even looking.

He took it and carefully inspected the device for any damage. Upon finding it unscathed, he set the device down and assumed his Thinking Position.

"I didn't think about that," John replied.

"I need to go to the bank," he said suddenly, standing and moving toward the stairs. He plucked his coat off the door and pulled it on. Behind him, Hermione laughed aloud as John rushed to follow him.

"Where've you two been all afternoon?" Hermione asked when they returned from interrupting Sebastian's long lunch.

He paused momentarily in the doorway at the sight of her. Standing by the window, she had a rag and a bottle of window cleaner in her hands, and her hair was in a neat ponytail. Inwardly, he smirked.

 _Won't be my housekeeper indeed._

"Case," he replied shortly, pulling off his scarf to hang it on the door before heading to the table against the wall and his laptop.

Slipping his coat off, he hung it on the back of the chair before sitting down and opening his computer. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione turn to John and the doctor revealed their findings. That organ in his ribcage pulsed when intrigue sparked in her eyes. The moment John finished regaling her with their day, she immediately turned to him.

"May I see the graffiti you found?" she asked, walking closer to him.

Swiftly, he withdrew his phone from his coat pocket and handed it to her. She took it, but before doing anything, her brows furrowed and she just stared at the device.

"Where's my phone?"

Spears of ice punctured his chest then. His fingers faltered in their typing momentarily, and in his ears, his blood was roaring and raging. Suddenly, the weight in his trouser pocket was burning against his leg.

"What phone?" he asked, fighting to remain blasé as always.

"My phone," she reiterated. "Didn't I have one when you guys found me?" He looked up and found her gazing between him and John, whose face pinched in remembrance. "I mean, I did have one, didn't I? I'm a thirty-year-old woman, wouldn't it be odd if I didn't have a mobile?"

"I don't remember checking for a phone," John admitted, the lines on his face fading slightly. "Sherlock, did you?"

His tongue turned to lead in his mouth. For once, he was unsure whether to lie or tell the truth, because the truth was that Hermione's phone was in the right pocket of his trousers and searing a hole through them. Of course, if he lied, he would be able to buy more time in trying to figure out the passcode to her phone so he could solve the puzzle she presented in his mind. If he told the truth, on the other hand, that would make him a good person, but also make Hermione question as to why he'd waited so long to return her phone and destroy some of the tenuous trust she had built in him.

Despite the tight discomfort under his sternum, he lied. "You didn't have a phone on you. I believe you lost it either during the struggle with your attacker or when you were trying to get away."

Hermione stared at him, her eyes hazy, but she nodded, seeming to buy his lie. She turned back to his phone and lowered herself into his armchair. Turning back to his laptop, he went to work on researching the graffiti.

Not a moment later did John shout and bolt out of his chair. He whipped around and found Hermione kneeling on the ground, clutching her head with her eyes squeezed shut. Hurriedly, he dropped to the floor as well and hovered over her.

 _She's remembering something._

"Hermione! Hermione what's wrong?" John asked.

The brunette whimpered and the sound ripped through him. He moved so that he was in front of Hermione and clasped her head, her hands beneath his hands. Gently, he shook her, forcing her eyes to open and dart around wildly before settling on him.

"Hermione, listen to me, whatever you're remembering, don't grab onto it," he said carefully. "If you grab it, the memory will slip away from your grasp. You're going to have to store it in a room instead. You need to create a room inside your mind where you can keep it and visit it rather than trying to will the memory into existence."

He slid his hands down to hold the sides of her face, and went on softly, "Push the memory into the room and shut the door. You will seal the memory in and visit later. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Through the cloudy glint of agony in her eyes, he saw comprehension spark beneath the fog. Her eyes shut again and her face didn't contort in pain again, but rather, concentration washed over her features. Seconds ticked by, dragging into what seemed like aeons, when the tension in her body finally left.

Finally, her eyelids fluttered open, the haze of confusion and torment gone. John visibly drooped in relief, and he reluctantly—he would never admit it aloud—removed his hands from Hermione's face. He stood and allowed John to move their ward to his armchair while he went to get her a glass of water.

Returning to the main room, he found Hermione staring at his phone once more with John trying to pull her from her musings. He strode to her, plucked the device from her grasp and handed her the glass of water. When she tried to protest, he simply narrowed his gaze and surprisingly, she relented.

Hermione took a few sips from the glass while John was finally able to check her over. When his flatmate finished his inspection, the brunette finished drinking her water. He pulled his chair at the table away from it and settled the seat before Hermione.

"You constructed the room?" he asked, meeting her brown eyes.

"Yes," she replied, her voice just a little hoarse.

"Good. Now, I need you to slip into your mind and access it," he went on. "If the door doesn't open, don't worry. It will take a few days for you to get used to the mental expansion, and then you will be able to access the memory and all the details."

She nodded, but her brows furrowed. "Why didn't we try this before?"

"Because I was uncertain as to whether or not you would be able to achieve a mental expansion," he said bluntly.

"What changed your mind?" John interjected.

He glowered a little then. "She figured out my password."

Hermione arched her brow at him "I thought you said I was lucky."

"Well it seems that you have more than just a modicum of intelligence," he replied, nose in the air.

At this, the brunette laughed and John chuckled. He fought the grin that wished to spread across his face again, but connected his eyes to Hermione's eyes.

"Are you ready to try accessing the room?" he asked, his amusement from a moment prior completely absent. At her nod, he went on, "Good, now close your eyes and slip into the halls of your mind. When you are there, look for a door. It should be white and pristine to signify its newness. Once found, approach it and see if you can open it. Again, if you can't then don't be discouraged because it can take a few days before you—"

"—I opened it," she said, interrupting him.

He paused to register her words before he narrowed his eyes at her. "What?"

"I opened it," she repeated. "What do I do now?"

Quickly, he gathered himself and deleted the fact that he had been surprised that she had managed to access the room. "Enter the room and experience the memory first," he continued. "When you've done so, watch it again, but examine it. Deconstruct it. Pick it apart for details until you find what caused you to remember it in the first place."

Hermione nodded once again in understanding. He waited with baited breath for her to reveal what she remembered. Five minutes later, both he and John exhaled when she opened her eyes.

"I remember sitting in class," she began. "I'm about thirteen, but I'm wearing the oddest clothes. Robes, I think. My teacher and classmates are wearing robes as well, but we, the students, have different crests on them. My crest is a lion on a red and gold background, but I saw that others had some kind of bird on blue bronze, a badger on yellow and black, or a snake on green and silver.

"Our classroom is made of stone and our desks are wood. We write with quills on parchment, and our teacher uses a blackboard and chalk for instruction. I don't know if I'm imagining this because it all seems so...mediaeval," she said, shaking her head. "Moreover, we're learning Arithmancy, and I've never heard of such a thing."

"Arithmancy? Are you sure it isn't Arithmetics?" John asked, before he could do so.

Hermione nodded. "It's Arithmancy, I'm positive."

"What triggered your memory?" he questioned then. "What does the graffiti have to do with this Arithmancy that made you remember?"

"From what I can tell, Arithmancy has to do with numbers and number systems. It doesn't stick to the Hindu-Arabic numeral system, but other systems as well. It even uses very ancient numeral systems," she explained then tapping the phone in his hand. "This graffiti isn't just a random sign. These are Hangzhou numerals, an ancient Chinese numeral system, and these numbers are fifteen and one."

This time, he couldn't stop the grin. It spread across his lips so widely that his cheeks actually ached. He turned to John and Hermione, excitement thrumming in his veins.

"Of course, that makes sense," he said hurriedly, standing and moving the chair back to the table. "Van Coon managed the Hong Kong accounts, which makes sense that he would recognise the symbols."

"But the questions still remain," Hermione said, recapturing his attention. "Who killed him and why was he killed? Why would he recognise the numbers and who would go through the trouble to graffiti that office just for him to see?"

"You're right," he replied absentmindedly, moving back to his laptop. "We've only just solved a piece of the puzzle, but a piece nonetheless. Good job, Hermione." There was a rather awkward stretch of silence following his statement. Turning, he found both John and Hermione looking at him with wide eyes. "What?" he asked tersely.

"Y-You just said she was right," his flatmate stuttered.

"And told me that I did a good job," she added.

He exhaled loudly. "I'm arrogant, not egotistical." With a smirk, he said pointedly to Hermione, "That's Mycroft."

Revelling in the sound of her laughter, he went to work on printing out the pictures from his phone. He heard John move to the kitchen behind him while Hermione went back to dusting the shelves. And every so often, he would sneak peek at her to make sure she was okay.

He stared at the mirror above his mantle, where he had posted the printed off photos of the graffiti, and waited for the pieces to pop out at him.

Hermione was abnormally quiet as she read, snuggly curled into John's chair. Normally, she would hum here or there, usually when she agreed with whatever she read or intrigued by it. Other times, she would click her tongue when she found whatever she read disagreeable or ridiculous.

Today, something was bothering her, and had been ever since the day before when she remembered her Arithmancy class. By the lack of page turning in the past hour, he knew that whatever it was, it disturbed her greatly—her lower lip was pinker and plusher than normal. Moreover, it seemed that she didn't trust him or John enough to share it with either of them, and for some reason, it made his chest uncomfortably tight.

John came up the stairs then, obviously drawing Hermione out of her thoughts.

"How did it go?" she asked. "Did the surgery need help?"

The doctor smiled lopsidedly. "It went well. Really well, actually. It's great. _She's_ great."

Hermione visibly brightened. "She?"

John cleared his throat. "Uh, er, well…"

"Who is she?" Hermione went on, shutting her book and almost bouncing in the chair.

"As much as I'd like to listen to John's infatuation with his interviewer," he interrupted, still staring at the mirror. "There are more important matters at hand." Both of his flatmates turned to him, and he nodded his head in the direction of his laptop. "Take a look."

The two moved towards his computer, and took a moment to read the article he'd found.

"' _The intruder who can walk through walls_ ,'" John read.*

" _Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his apartment. Door locked. Windows bolted from the inside. Exactly the same as Van Coon_ ," he explained.*

"The killer struck again," Hermione said. "What will you two do now?"

Instead of answering, he stood and grabbed his coat. "Will you be coming with us?"

The brunette baulked then. "What?"

He sighed heavily. "We're going to Scotland Yard. We'll need Dimmock to let us see Lukis's apartment," he said. "Will you be coming with us?"

"Why would I go with you?" she inquired.

"You figured out the significance of the graffiti. I think that constitutes that you're now involved in the case. I thought it would be right to invite you along," he replied.

Her teeth caught her lower lip. "I don't think that's a good idea, Sherlock."

For some reason, he wasn't expecting that response from her. "And why not?"

"As intriguing as this case is, it could prove to be dangerous," she warned then asked, "Isn't there anything else I could help you with? Something that doesn't directly involve me chasing after a murder?"

He clicked his tongue. "Where's the fun in that?"

Hermione laughed softly and rolled her eyes. "No, I guess it isn't very fun, but when the alternative is risking my life, I think I'd prefer doing research over chasing after a killer."

Plucking his scarf off the table, he wrapped it around his neck before going to his bedroom. He went to his wardrobe, opened it, and grabbed her charcoal pea coat. Without a second glance, he shut the door to the wardrobe and returned to the main room. Hermione and John were reading the article, and upon seeing them so close together, green fire ignited within him.

Quickly, he strode over to them, wedged himself between them and grabbed their elbows. Not answering their inquiries or letting them go, he pulled them towards the stairs and down them. Outside 221, he handed Hermione's coat to her before shutting the front door behind them. He then led them to the curb and hailed a taxi.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?" Hermione asked, her voice just a tad bit shrill.

When the cab pulled up, he gave the cabbie their destination and pulled his flatmates into the vehicle. Once again, he was between Hermione and John.

"Sherlock, I said I didn't want to come," Hermione said. "Why did you bring me?"

"Because no matter how much you want to deny it, you want to solve this case as much as I do, now that you're involved," he replied. When she opened her mouth to retort, he continued, "You're like me, Hermione. More than you care to admit. This case is one giant, high-stakes puzzle, and I have no doubt that you like puzzles as much as I do."

"But that doesn't justify the fact that you dragged me along despite what I said," she countered. "You can't just do whatever you want to do, Sherlock. You have to consider others when making decisions that concern them."

"I did," he replied. "If I knew that you really didn't want to come along, then I wouldn't have invited you let alone brought you. Face it, Hermione. You wanted to come and you're just ticked off that you didn't have enough courage to come along on your own."

She huffed and turned away from him. It took him the whole ride to Scotland Yard to keep his smirk off his face. Sometimes, he enjoyed being right.

Upon finding the Detective Inspector, he strode over to the man's tiny desk and didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"Van Coon's killer has struck again," he said, grabbing the DI's laptop and typed in the URL for the article on Lukis.

"What? What do you mean?" Dimmock asked sharply. "And who is this?"

From the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione give the DI a polite smile and stick out her hand. "Hermione Granger," she said. "I'm staying temporarily with these two."

"Detective Inspector Dimmock," the DI said, brows pinching as he shook her hand. "Have we met before?"

Hermione shrugged. "Possibly. Though I wouldn't be able to tell you if we did."

Dimmock's brows furrowed further. "Why not?"

"It's nothing you need to concern yourself with," he said before Hermione could reply. Casting a glance at her, she nodded slightly at him and he looked away. Turning the computer around, he showed the DI the article. " _Brian Lukis, freelance journalist, murdered in his flat. Doors locked from the inside_."*

Beside him, John continued, " _You've got admit it's similar. Both men killed by someone who can walk through solid walls_."*

The other police around them were watching them, some gossiping, others smirking. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly when Dimmock shifted in his chair, gazing around at co-workers quickly before refocusing on him and his flatmates.

" _Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide?_ " When he received no response, he went on, " _You have seen the ballistics' reports, I suppose?_ " Dimmock nodded. " _And the shot that killed him wasn't from his own gun?_ "*

Reluctance etched into the DI's face upon his response. " _No_."*

"Then surely even you would concede, Detective Inspector," Hermione said, "that your investigation would move quicker if you were to take Sherlock's findings into consideration rather than throw them out by the wayside."

Dimmock turned to the brunette then and scrutinised her as if she was the case he was trying to solve. The emerald flames in his blood ignited again at the intensity in which the DI stared at Hermione. Stepping in front of her, he snapped his fingers in front of the man's face to get his attention.

" _I've just handed you a murder enquiry_ ," he said, Dimmock turning to him once more. " _Five minutes in that flat._ "*

The DI shot a quick glance at Hermione behind him, but he moved with the man's glance to keep his attention. After a moment of evident contemplation, Dimmock nodded.

Lukis's apartment was an utter mess. There were books everywhere, laundry strewn across the furniture, and piles of dishes in the sink of the kitchenette. He smirked just slightly when Hermione's nose wrinkled at the sight of the chaos that was the journalist's flat.

"I'm just going to wait by the door," she said.

He allowed her to go, figuring that if she stayed, she might have started to tidy up the place for the sake of the books alone. Turning back to the main room, he scoped the length of it before striding over to the window. There was a clear view of the street from four floors up, and in his mind, he put together the facts.

" _Fourth floor. That's why they think they're safe. Put the chain on the door, bolt it shut think you're impregnable_ ," he muttered. " _They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in_."*

With a swift turn, he moved back to the hall where the stairs were to try the skylight, John and Dimmock following him.

" _I don't understand_ ," the DI said.*

" _Dealing with a killer who can climb_ ," he responded, stepping up to the skylight.*

" _What are you doing?_ " Dimmock asked.*

Ignoring the detective's query, he went on, "He can cling to walls like an insect." He pushed the handle of the skylight and it opened immediately. " _That's how he got in_."*

A flash of brown caught his attention.

At the bottom of the stairs, Hermione crouched near the piles of books. The crease between her brows was a product of her concentration as she meticulously stacked and organised the mess of tomes. Holding back a chuckle at her care for books, he turned back to the DI.

" _He climbed up the side of this building, ran along the roof, and dropped in through this skylight_ ," he said.*

It took him a minute to recount the rest of his findings to Dimmock, but before he could finish, Hermione interrupted him.

"Sherlock!"

Whipping around, he jogged down the stairs to where she crouched with a book open in her hands. He bent his head nearer to hers, trying to see what had caught her attention.

"Look." She pointed to the marking of 'West Kensington Library' and then to the checkout slip. "Lukis checked it out the day he died." He took the book from her hand and examined it, finding that it was a book on Southeast Asian politics. "Are we heading to the library?"

He snapped the cover shut and turned to her with another smirk on his face. "I suppose we are." Standing, he helped her stand as well. "Come along, John!"

With a nod to Dimmock, he steered Hermione out of Lukis's flat. His flatmate caught up to them a moment later, and inquired as to where they were going.

"We're off to the library," was all he said as he hailed a taxi once they were on the street.

"The library? Why?" John asked.

Hermione took the book from his hand and showed it to the doctor. "Because of this."

Taking the book from her, John examined it, but missed the important details of the book. "What does a book about Southeast Asian politics have to do with anything?"

He sighed loudly, drawing their attention. "The book was checked out the day he died. Do pay attention, John."

Later in the afternoon, when they'd returned from the library, they compiled their findings together and posted them onto the mirror above the fireplace. Hermione had gone to make John and herself something to eat, while he and his flatmate examined what they had so far. He reiterated their findings so he wouldn't miss anything, inwardly glad that John was getting better at catching the small details and honing his skills of deduction.

Hermione entered the main room then, a tray of tea and sandwiches in her hands. She set the tray on the table against the wall, and handed a plate and mug to John. The doctor thanked her, and settled into his armchair to eat his lunch. What surprised _him_ most, however, was rather than turn to take the other plate and mug for her, she grabbed him by the elbow and shoved him into his armchair.

"What are you—" He wasn't able to finish his question, for the next thing he knew, she was sitting in his lap with the plate of sandwiches in her hand.

"Eat," she said simply, holding the dish up to his nose.

A maelstrom raged inside the cavity of his chest and in his blood as her doors burst open inside his Mind Palace.

It had been fourteen years since he had last experienced the softness of her physique. Where he had been hard angles, she had been lush curves. She had fit so... _perfectly_ against him that when he would hug her, he would relish the sheer exquisiteness that was having Hermione in his arms. And now she was here, in his lap, and just as soft, perhaps more so now that she was a fully-grown woman, and his body remembered her.

Flames licked at his skin as her scent swathed him, familiarity and longing welling up so suddenly inside him that there was a sting in his chest whenever he drew in breath. His fingers twitched, itching to tangle in her riotous, golden brown curls. The urge to claim her clouded his mind, forcing all of his reasoning abilities to the furthest depths of his mind.

What staggered him the most was the raw, molten hot _need_ that consumed his very being. This yearning, this ache, was so agonisingly potent that his mind actually shut down, and all was that was left were his emotions. He was vulnerable then, because now that he couldn't listen to his cool, objective, logic-oriented self, he was at the mercy of the very core of himself.

He was at the mercy of his heart.

And his heart wasn't wasting the opportunity to tell him what his mind refused to acknowledge—he needed Hermione. Now more than ever, because fourteen years without her made him realise just exactly she had been, was, and would always be. She was his destruction and salvation, his most valuable treasure and greatest weakness.

This woman in his lap was the very reason he had lived a half-life for fourteen years, because she was the light to his world. When she had left, he had allowed himself to submit to the darkness rather than remember her or the light she represented. That also was why he had started using in the first place, because drugs had numbed him from feeling the emptiness that had resonated within him so deeply. The drugs had helped him to forget, for a little while, what his heart knew but his mind had adamantly refused to admit—that Hermione Granger had been his heart.

Meeting her dark eyes, he knew that she still was.

It was with that realisation that his mind jump-started. He blinked rapidly, his head throbbing at the temples for a moment before the ache dissipated. When Hermione waved the plate under his nose once more, he returned his focus to her and gingerly raised his hand.

Lead replaced the marrow in his bones, and his movements were a bit sluggish, but there was brightness in his mind that had never been there before now. Confused, and perhaps just a little bit frightened, he focused on the singular task of taking the proffered plate of sandwiches from Hermione. It was only then that he saw that she had made him bacon sandwiches.

"Thank you," he murmured softly, oddly okay with the warmth seeping into his bones.

Hermione stared at him for a minute before a beaming smile graced her lips. "You're welcome."

She moved off of his lap, and he mourned the loss before his mind registered the ache in his stomach. For once, he ate in the middle of a case. Looking up from the dish, he found John staring at him, utterly gobsmacked and jaw dropped.

"What?" he asked, shifting ever so slightly in his seat. "Is there something on my face?"

"Are you really going to eat that?" the doctor inquired, disbelief heavy in his voice.

He clutched the place closer to him, narrowing his eyes at John. "Yes," he replied, slowly. "Why?"

The doctor shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind."

Nodding, satisfied that John wasn't after his sandwiches, he picked one up and bit into it, pausing because his taste buds were positively delighted. He looked to Hermione, finding her watching him with trepidation in her gaze. With a little incline of his head, she grinned once more at him and he continued to eat his sandwich.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE** | Big thanks to those of you that take the time to support the story through reviews. I appreciate them because I love hearing your thoughts guys, and they motivate me to update sooner.

 _Thanks for reading!_


	5. HEAD, HEART, HERMIONE

CHAPTER FIVE

HEAD, HEART, HERMIONE

* * *

The phone was a burning coal against his palm, and that fire ravaged him so ruthlessly, so fiercely, that there was a weight pressing insistently against his chest. It'd been ever since he lied to Hermione. Luckily for him, Mrs. Hudson had convinced Hermione to spend the rest of the afternoon with her and Mrs. Turner for tea next door. He didn't know how he would explain his possession of her phone. Of course, he could always lie again.

Wincing, the very thought punctured his heart. He shook his head; he deleted that option and stared at the mobile in his hand.

The phone was off, and he'd kept it off since the night of the attack. It wouldn't be hard to track the phone; so to keep Hermione's attacker from locating her, the mobile remained off and he made sure it was on his person. If Hermione's attacker managed to track the phone when it was off, he did not want to risk putting the brunette in danger by leaving the mobile at 221 when she was there and he wasn't.

When the front door opened, he tucked the phone away once more. He stood and moved to the fireplace. Picking up the book on the mantle, he flipped through it. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips; Hermione had had the forethought of suggesting they checkout a book on the history of the Hangzhou number system from the library.

John's heavy footsteps grew louder, and without looking up, he said, " _You've been a while_."*

" _Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody Sergeants don't like to be hurried, do they?_ " John replied tersely. " _Just formalities. Fingerprints, charge sheets, and I've got to be in magistrates' court on Tuesday._ "*

He raised the book just a little bit higher so John would not see his grin in the mirror. " _What?_ " he asked with exaggerated disinterest.*

" _Me, Sherlock!_ " his flatmate shouted. " _In court, on Tuesday! They're giving me an ASBO!_ "*

"What? How did you get an ASBO?"

He turned at the sound of Hermione's voice, finding her entering the room with a tin in her hands. In his neck, his pulse raced just a little bit faster, but he steadfastly fought any outward reaction despite the fact he was a cyclone of delight and scorn. Delighted, because she was near, but scorned, because he was so _happy_ that she was close to him.

 _Deductions save me from turning into a love-stricken fool._

"How was tea?" he asked, not really interested but making an effort to be polite.

"Mind-numbing," she deadpanned. "You don't know how inane gossip could be until you listen to the gossip between old women." Hermione set the tin in her grasp on the table by the wall. "These are from Mrs. Turner. Apparently, she heard about John's sweet tooth."

Almost immediately, John's demeanour shifted and he moved straight to the tin. Hermione shot him a wink behind the doctor's back, to which he responded with a smirk, and crossed the room towards him.

"So why did he get an ASBO?" she asked. Before he could respond, John recounted their trip to the alleyway behind the National Gallery. Hermione rounded on him once the doctor finished. "And you just left him there to get charged with a crime he didn't commit?"

He shrugged. "He didn't run. What was I supposed to do? Pull him along?"

"Of course! That's what friends do."

Ignoring her, he shut the book and tossed it onto his armchair. "I can't find the connection between Van Coon and Lukis," he said.

He slapped John's hand away from the tin of cookies when the doctor went to reach for another, and began steering him towards the door. Upon nearing Hermione, he grabbed her hand and tugged her along as well.

"Sherlock!"

"What are you—"

"John, I want you to go to the police station and ask about Lukis," he said. Grabbing his and Hermione's coats off the back of the door, he went on, "Hermione, you'll come with me. John, try to get hold of a diary. We need something that will tell us about Lukis's movements."

"Where are we going then?" Hermione asked, evidently trying to put on her coat without tripping or falling down the stairs.

"We're going to see Van Coon's PA. We'll need to see if his movements coincide with Lukis's movements," he answered.

Once out on the street, he tugged Hermione further down without so much as a goodbye to John.

"Sherlock, wait!"

He sighed heavily, and turned around, finding her staring intently at the other side of the street. There was nothing there, but a crease had formed between Hermione's brows, signalling she was deep in thought.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I thought I saw—" She shook her head. "Never mind. It must've been my imagination."

He nodded. "Come on then."

* * *

Van Coon's office was still untouched; the police had yet to come around to collect the dead man's belongings, sparse as they were. He let Hermione inspect the office while he headed straight towards Van Coon's PA. After quickly explaining the situation, Amanda, the PA, showed him back to her late boss's office. Amanda stopped in the doorway at the sight of Hermione.

"She's with me," he said.

With a slow nod, the PA moved to the computer and punched in the password. She then pulled up Van Coon's calendar.

" _Flew back from Dalian Friday. Looks like he had back to back meetings with the sales team_ ," Amanda said.*

" _Can you print me up a copy?_ " he asked. At her nod, he went on, " _What about the day he died? Can you tell me where he was?_ "*

" _Sorry. I've got a gap._ " She pointed to her desk outside then. " _I have all his receipts._ "*

"Let's have a look then," he said, moving to follow her out. Once she was out the doorway, he whirled around to Hermione, who was reading a copy of London A to Z. "What have you found?"

"Isn't it odd that a man native to London would need a guidebook?" she asked, not looking up from the book. "And highlight arbitrary words?"

When she handed it to him, he took it, surprised. She was right, but that was unsurprising. What surprised him was the fact that he'd completely disregarded the guidebook upon his inspection of the office. Now, they had another piece of information that didn't quite fit with their current findings.

"I'm going to look at Van Coon's receipts," he said, giving her back the book. "See if you can find anything else that would give us some idea as to what he did the day he died."

She nodded. "All right."

Striding out of the office, he found Amanda quickly and swiftly shuffled through Van Coon's receipts. He questioned her as he examined all of the receipts; it was almost like a card game. Finally, he found three receipts that clued him in as to what Van Coon did the day he died. Without thanking the PA, he rushed back into the office and nearly toppled over Hermione.

"Sherlock, look!" She waved a paper in his face. "Van Coon wrote down an address on this note. It was hidden under the keyboard, and when I looked up the address, I found that it was in Chinatown."

"Chinatown," he murmured then looked to her. "Good job."

She grinned widely. "Thanks. What did you find?"

"Van Coon was delivering something the day he died somewhere near Piccadilly," he explained, steering her out of the office. "Now we know it was this address—" He waved the note. "—in Chinatown."

"We're off to Chinatown then?" she asked.

"We're off to Chinatown."

* * *

"Van Coon bought lunch here the day he died en route to the station," he said as they passed the sandwich shop on Shaftesbury Avenue.

"What do you think he was delivering?" Hermione asked.

He turned to answer her, meeting her amber-brown eyes, but before he could, they both collided into someone—it was John.

" _Van Coon brought a package here the day he died_ ," he explained hurriedly to John. " _Whatever was hidden inside that suitcase. I've managed to piece together his movements using scraps of information—_ "*

"Sherlock—"

"—from his receipts and a note Hermione found under the keyboard of his computer," he finished.

"It was the address to a shop," Hermione continued, looking around. "It's somewhere around here."

John pointed. " _That shop over there._ "*

He looked to where John was pointing and saw a shop named "The Lucky Cat" across the street. Turning back to his flatmate he asked, " _How could you tell?_ "*

" _Lukis' diary._ " John held up the journalist's diary. " _He was here too_."*

"Well, come on then," Hermione said, grabbing their arms and starting to drag them across the street.

They crossed the street to the shop. In the window, golden cats waved at them. There were different Chinese ceramics set up on display around the cat as well paper lanterns, sashes, and fans strung around the cat and ceramics. Hermione entered first and he followed closely with John behind him.

The display was evidently set up to attract customers, because the inside of the shop was dingy, tiny, and dirty. There wasn't even a till, just a metal cash box. Layers of dust covered everything, even a plate of oranges sitting next to some burning incense. Nothing had been bought in ages, but there were footprints on the floor, which was also dusty and dirty, so many people frequently visited the shop.

Sitting behind the counter was the shopkeeper, an old Chinese woman, and there was a radio playing Chinese opera on the counter. When John neared the woman to look at some ceramic teacups, the old woman began trying to get him to buy a lucky cat for his "wife." Hermione laughed softly beside him and he smirked at the evident discomfort on his flatmate's face.

He picked up one of the waving lucky cats and examined it, wrinkling his nose at the thick blanket of dust on the knickknack. As he moved to set it down, the red marks beneath the cat caught his attention, and he handed the knickknack to Hermione. Looking up at him after seeing at the markings, she nodded imperceptibly and he jerked his head in the direction of the door. They both managed to get John's attention, and together, they left The Lucky Cat.

Once again, Hermione dragged them along across the road to a restaurant. Inside, she released them and led the way to a table for four. Taking the seat next to her before John could, he witness the doctor's exasperated face before it disappeared as he sat across from Hermione.

"So what do we know so far?" Hermione asked, shrugging off her coat as John did the same.

He kept his coat on, but replied, "Lukis and Van Coon both returned from China. From the same place in China actually—Dalian."

"And they both came here—" John jabbed his thumb at the window of the restaurant where The Lucky Cat sat across the road. "—as soon as they arrived."

"Van Coon was delivering a package the day he died." Hermione snatched the pen he was using to write the Hangzhou on a serviette before she took the serviette as well, and began to write on the back. "I think it's safe to say that Lukis brought a package to The Lucky Cat as well."

"I'm assuming you don't mean duty free, do you?" John asked.

" _Think about what Sebastian told us. About Van Coon, about how he stayed afloat in the market_ ," he said, causing both of them to look to him.*

"He lost five million…" the doctor replied slowly.

"And made it back in a week," he finished for him.

"There are only a handful of ways you could make such easy money," Hermione added. "But only one fits how Van Coon made it by delivering a package."

John's face brightened in realisation. " _He was a smuggler_."*

The brunette nodded. "And both Van Coon and Lukis were perfect for the job. Think about it. It wouldn't seem odd for a businessman or a journalist to take frequent trips to Asia. They smuggled something out and came to The Lucky Cat to deliver it. The emporium was their drop off."

" _Why did they die? It doesn't make sense. If they both turned up at the shop and delivered the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event? After they'd finished the job?_ " John asked.*

He was just about to ponder that for a moment, before Hermione went on, "Isn't it obvious?"

Sharply, he turned to her. "What do you mean?"

"They died because one of them either betrayed secrecy or stole something," she explained. "As the police aren't searching for the organisation they worked for, I'm betting it's the latter."

" _One of them stole something—something from the hoard_ ," he said hurriedly.*

" _And the killer doesn't know which one of them took it, so he threatens them both_ ," John finished.*

Hermione grinned widely. "Exactly."

By then, he wasn't even listening. The glaring yellow telephone directory across the street had caught his attention, but it wasn't the colour that had caught his focus. It was the puddle of water beneath it that had done so, and alarms sounded in his Mind Palace.

" _Remind me_ ," he said. " _When was the last time that it rained?_ "*

Not waiting for a response, he stood and hurried out of the restaurant. He kneeled before the telephone directory, finding it slightly damp, then straightened.

" _It's here been since Monday_ ," he muttered once Hermione and John joined him.*

The tag above the door said "Soo Lin Yao" and he pressed the button. After a moment of ringing the bell, noone answered and he examined the building. Turning, he walked towards the side alley right next to it.

" _Noone's been in that flat for at least three days_ ," he said.*

" _Could've gone on holiday_ ," John replied.*

"They're not," Hermione interjected. "The windows are open. If you're going on holiday then you wouldn't leave your windows open."

He needed to press his lips together once more to fight to keep his face impassive. However, he'd known that Hermione would prove invaluable to the case. While there was no doubt that he was brilliant, and of course, John was too, but not as, Hermione was frighteningly brilliant, rivalling the genius of both him and Mycroft. The woman had already proven her worth—she'd figured out what the graffiti was, found the note under Van Coon's keyboard, and determined that Van Coon and Lukis had been smugglers.

Catching her eye, he smirked ever so slightly and she returned the gesture. He turned away from her to back up a few steps then ran to get momentum for his jump. When his hands grasped the stepped-ladder of the fire escape, he pulled it down and released it once it was low enough to the ground. Swiftly, he climbed the fire escape towards the open window of the flat.

" _Sherlock!_ " John called behind him.*

He ignored his flatmate and slipped inside the flat through the window. Had it not been for the hand that tugged on his arm, he would have knocked over the base that sat on the table beside the window. Alarmed, he whirled around and had the owner of the hand pinned against the wall.

Upon meeting Hermione's startled gaze, he released her immediately, warmth filling his cheeks and ears. He cleared his throat and stepped away from her, half-startled and half-impressed to find that she had followed him.

"What are you doing up here?" he asked quietly.

She too cleared her throat and then said, "Someone had to make sure you didn't get into trouble." Then she nodded her head at the vase. "Case and point."

Rolling his eyes, he moved deeper into the kitchen, but stopped at the wet stain on the carpet. He looked to Hermione, yet she was already crouching to take a closer look, so he did the same.

"Someone's already been here," she said. "Had I not stopped you then you would have knocked over the vase too."

He arched his brow, but she merely grinned at him. "Well then. Why don't you take the kitchen and I'll go take the main room?"

At her agreement, he moved to the main room, carefully examining the impressions in the rug and saying them aloud. Hermione returned the gesture, informing him of the spoiled milk, dry tea towel, and damp, odorous laundry. He ignored the ringing bell and John's requests to be let in, but Hermione wasn't going to do the same.

"Should I let John in?" she asked.

"Is he on the brink of death?" he responded.

"No—"

"Will he die if he doesn't come up?"

"No, but—"

"Then he'll be fine."

Hermione sighed in evident exasperation, but she didn't go downstairs to open the door for John. He moved to the mantle, and picked up a picture of two small children. There with fingerprints on the glass, and he relayed his findings to his companion, who merely hummed in response.

His brows furrowed then. " _Why didn't he close the window when he left—_ "*

"—Because he's still here," Hermione whispered beside him.

Looking at her, he found her staring at the folding screen near the corner. She met his gaze and gestured to it with her head. With a nod, he moved towards one side while she went to the other. Hand outstretched and ready to pull back the folding screen, she looked to him once more as he tensed to catch their acrobat. Hermione jerked the screen back and he faltered when there was no one behind it.

Before he could say anything to his companion, let alone look at her, their acrobat sprung up behind Hermione and shoved her aside. The brunette yelped when she hit the bed, and briefly, he was glad that their acrobat merely pushed her away.

His moment of lost focus cost him, for their acrobat had wrapped a piece of laundry around his neck, dragging him down to the floor and strangling him. Air caught in his throat and he gasped, trying to get it out or get more in. Grasping at and struggling against the laundry crushing his windpipe, he writhed on the floor in his attempts to free himself.

Black clouded the edges of his vision and fire ravaged his torso. He threw his arm, trying to grab for his assailant's legs, but in his trapped and rapidly weakening state, he missed. Choked gasps of Hermione's name left his lips, but he wasn't calling for her help—he wanted her to stay away, to get away, _to stay safe_.

And then he could breathe again.

Somehow, he managed to get up despite the protestations of his body. At the sight of Hermione fighting, and winning against, their acrobat, a tidal wave of energy surged through him suddenly. His assailant made to jab her in the abdomen, but he pulled her out of the way and forced her behind him.

"Sherlock, no!"

Ignoring her, he drew his arms up, ready to fight or defend, but their acrobat did not attack. Instead, his assailant threw a pile of laundry at them, forcing them to look away. They both turned back and their foe was gone.

The moment his mind registered that the threat to Hermione had vanished, he sank to the floor. He shuddered, taking deep, gasping breaths despite the ache of his chest whenever he inhaled. Inside his ribcage, his heart rioted, beating and banging against the prison of his bones.

Warm hands grasped the sides of his face and he found Hermione's amber-brown eyes boring into his own. She was centimetres away from him, and every detail of her face was as vivid to him as red paint was on a white canvas. The corners of her lips and eyes crinkled, her lower lip caught by her teeth, and her grip strong yet trembled slightly.

"Aside from being nearly strangled to death, are you okay?" she asked softly.

A wheeze of a laugh fell from him. "I'll live."

Then, she was hugging him, hands clutching the back of his coat and body quivering. Against his better judgement, he tentatively embraced her back, awkwardly rubbing her back to settle her.

Softly, he breathed in the sweet scent of her, his body thrumming with warmth that was both dizzying and strengthening. His palpitating heart was erratic and practically trying to break free from his chest. Perhaps after what they just went through, it was rather inappropriate to savour having her in his arms again, but he could not help it, and his mind had yet to protest.

Minutes passed before she finally settled and pulled away from him. Reluctantly, he let her go and kept his face soft yet blank. Red rimmed her eyes, but there were no stains on her cheeks from tears. His stomach clenched, whether in delight that she cared for him despite "short acquaintance" or in agony knowing that he'd caused her distress, he did not know.

He stood and helped her stand as well. Simultaneously, they headed towards the stairs.

"I understand now why Mycroft wanted me to spy on you," she murmured. "You'll get yourself killed one of these days."

"Probably."

* * *

She was quiet again. Covertly, he watched her as she sat in John's armchair, idly playing with the yarn bracelet around her left wrist.

It was a rather shabby accessory of yellow and red yarn, and looked as if it'd been made by a child. The braids of the yarn were off, there was more red than there was yellow, and it was just a tad tight around her wrist. For some reason though, it wasn't frayed or dirty or even faded.

There was no doubt in his mind that the bracelet was more than a few months old, because Hermione never took it off. Usually, it took a few weeks for a person to become accustomed to constantly wearing a piece of jewellry or accessory. Hermione never seemed to notice that the bracelet was there, and she even had a habit of twisting it around her wrist when she was deep in thought or anxious. Her face was a carefully formed blank mask, and he didn't know if she was either or both.

Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from her and refocused on the mirror above the mantle. He'd created a sort of collage of photos, articles, and notes about the case. The photo of the eighteen Chinese numbers John had found by the tracks last night had pride of place.

"Why are they always in pairs?" he muttered, trying and failing to piece together the puzzle in his Mind Palace. Behind him, John mumbled about needing to sleep, but he ignored the doctor. " _Why did he paint it so near the tracks?_ "*

Movement at the windows caught his eyes, and he turned to find an _Otus scops_ , or more commonly known as an Eurasian scops owl, perched outside on the railings of the windows. His brow crinkled; it was not uncommon to find these owls in London, but they were more commonly found in open country, particularly farmlands, where their prey was in abundance. Moreover, this scops owl seemed to stare at him with _cognition_ in its yellow eyes, and stared at him for a moment before turning its gaze to something behind him.

Turning around, he found Hermione staring at the owl in return. She winced suddenly and shut her eyes. Immediately, he was at her side, kneeling and reminding her to place the memory in a room rather than try to grab at it. Minutes ticked away again, and soon, Hermione reopened her eyes.

"What did you remember this time?" he asked.

"I—I don't really know," she replied softly. "For some reason, when I was fifteen—" His breath lodge in his throat. "—my friend asked me to let my cat sniff his pet owl."

The walls of his Mind Palace shuddered as he sighed quietly. Flexing his fingers on his knee, he forced the stiffness of his body away. Now was not the time for his emotions. He could feel later.

"Is that all?" he inquired further.

"More or less," the brunette answered. "I don't remember what my friend's name was, but I remembered what he looked like—red hair, blue eyes, freckled, _tall_. His owl looked just like that one." She nodded towards the bird still staring at her. "Only it was much younger. And my cat. Goodness, how could I forget that I had a cat like that!" Her smile was bright and wide and infectious. "It was huge, ginger, with the intelligen, orange eyes and a squashed face, but he was most adorable thing I have ever seen. Crookshanks—that was his name."

Suddenly, the smile on her face started to fall and her eyes dimmed. Ice speared his chest as darkness seemed to engulf Hermione. Once again, he flexed his fingers, wrestling with the urge to comfort her and the lingering need to keep her at arm's length. John was there then, holding her hand, and he kneeled there, frozen and numb, staring at the clasped hands of his flatmates.

"I miss him," Hermione whispered.

Though her voice was soft, her anguish screamed, bellowed, and ravaged his eardrums. It was his first instinct to remove himself from such an emotional situation, but he was struggling somehow to do so now.

War waged in his mind—sixteen-year-old Sherlock versus thirty-one-year-old Sherlock. The boy fought and yearned for Hermione and everything she so teasingly, albeit unknowingly, offered him. As for the man, he was fighting too, but not to get closer to Hermione. Rather, the man was fighting to get away from her, _to keep her away_ , because she could easily destroy him, unwittingly or not, as she had fourteen years ago.

Everything that he had ever felt, be it physically or emotionally, could not compare to anything Hermione had ever made him or could make him feel. It was for that very reason he struggled to make sense of the chaos that was his thoughts and memories. They caused him to feel so deeply, for he'd never felt anything so acutely in a long, _long_ time.

However, this fight wasn't just his heart against his head anymore. His head, by some means, had decided that Hermione's presence in his life proved beneficial, perhaps even vital, for him to function. How his mind came about this decision, he was unsure, but it was there, in his Mind Palace and unmovable as the sun in sky.

Shaking his head, he endeavoured to figure out why his mind had so easily changed its decision regarding Hermione. But first, they would need to solve the case.

"I don't mean to be rude, but there are more important matters than your cat," he said bluntly though he had tried to soften it by speaking softly.

Of course, it didn't matter to John, because the doctor glared at him. "Sherlock, are you really that insensit—"

"—No, he's right, John," Hermione said, interrupting his flatmate. "There's nothing I can do about Crookshanks, not with my memory. For now, we need to focus on the case and Soo Lin Yao." Her shoulders straightened and she turned to him, a fire of determination in her amber-brown eyes. "What have you got so far?"

"The numbers are always in pairs," he said, standing and moving to the fireplace. "See, fifteen and one, twelve and forty-three, et cetera. Why? Why are the in pairs? Moreover, why did he write them so close to the tracks? Where hundreds, thousands, of people pass by every day?"

"It all depends on who will see it," she said, at his side then. "To most, the numbers just look like graffiti, but to a smuggler, it could be something else entirely."

"It could be a message," John suggested.

"Not 'could be,'" he said. "It _is_ a message. This is a code of some sort. Our acrobat wants whatever was stolen back, so he left a message where his people could see it."

"Now all we have to do is figure out the code," Hermione replied. "That means we need to find Soo Lin Yao. The acrobat was there for a reason, and I'm guessing that she knows something that could help us crack this code and solve the case."

Pulling the photo of the eighteen numbers off the mirror, he folded it and said to Hermione, "John and I will go to the museum again then. Go back to the library to see if you can find anything on the relationships of crime syndicates and Hangzhou numerals."

At her nod, he grabbed his coat and dragged John towards the door.

* * *

He was a man of fluctuating patience. There were times where, if need be, he could be as patient as a farmer—and then there were times where the size of his patience was a large as a mustard seed.

Now was one of those times.

Dimmock absolutely refused to see the evidence that stared him in the face—their findings and the body of Soo Lin Yao. Even Hermione's research couldn't sway the man. It was for this very reason John was practically breathing down the DI's neck.

" _How many murders is it going to take before you start believing this maniac is out there?_ " John asked tersely. When Dimmock didn't respond, the doctor went on, " _A young girl was gunned down tonight. That three victims in three days. You're supposed to be finding him_."*

He shot a glance at Hermione, and she nodded, stepping forward to pull John aside and try to placate him. While the doctor's attention was on the brunette, he stepped closer towards the DI's desk. Dimmock didn't look at him, but by the stiffness in his shoulders and stance, he knew that the DI was aware of his presence.

" _Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers_ ," he said lowly. " _A gang called The_ _Black_ _Lotus, operating here in London right under your nose_."*

Once again, Dimmock didn't respond and he nearly growled in frustration. It was lucky for the DI that Hermione was there with them, or else he probably would have had to insult the man's intelligence, which was lacking to begin with, in order to make some sort of progress.

"Inspector," Hermione said, squeezing herself into the small space between him and Dimmock. For the second time that day, he stopped breathing. "Need I remind you that Sherlock has already proven that his findings aren't just some educated guesses concocted by some arrogant git with a startling massive intelligence?"

He was too focused on the scent of her to be offended. There was just a few centimetres separating his front from her back. It took a sheer amount of will to keep the doors to Hermione's wing shut—now was not the time or the place for _those_ memories, though it'd been many years since he'd last experienced them.

 _Focus you fool!_

"Are you sure we haven't met before?" Dimmock asked suddenly, catching him off guard as much as the DI caught Hermione.

The brunette shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not, but that really isn't important right now," she said. "What _is_ important is the fact that you're being a stubborn arse and refuse to acknowledge the fact that for all his arrogance, Sherlock is a genius. He's solved most of the case for you!"

For a handful of minutes, the DI did not speak, but looked between the three of them. Eventually, Dimmock sighed and said, "Can you prove it?"

To which Hermione said, "Do you really need to ask?"

* * *

It was unsettling, watching Hermione and Molly, after she overcame her initial wariness, laugh and chat as if they'd been old friends. Their giggling and gossiping rivalled that of chatter and clucking between old biddies.

And there was pointing!

When one of them said something about him, because he _knew_ that they were just trading stories about him, the one speaking would talk behind their hand and _point at him_. Then, the other would reply from behind their hand as well and they would break into a fit of giggles.

Deductions, it was maddening!

"If you two are done with your tête-à-tête, might I suggest that we _move along_?" he asked testily.

They responded by breaking into another fit of raucous giggles.

* * *

The death of Soo Lin Yao had evidently taken a toll on John. As soon as the three of them entered the apartment, the doctor fell into his chair and stared at the rug with a hollowness in his eyes.

He looked to Hermione and found she was bustling around the kitchen. Seeing that she was already doing what he was going to suggest, he removed his gloves, shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the back of the door along with his scarf. Not a moment later, Hermione was at his side, handing him a mug of coffee before giving the other mug in her other hand to John.

"What do we know so far?" she asked, settling onto the arm of John's chair.

"The Black Lotus is more than just a band of merry criminals—they're a cult of some sort," he said, sipping from his mug. Pausing, he sipped again and found that she'd made just as he preferred it—black with two sugars. With a twitch of his lips, he went on, "Soo Lin said her brother's been corrupted by one of the syndicate's leaders."

"She said the name," John muttered.

" _Yes. 'Shan.' General Shan_ ," he replied. "Moreover, Soo Lin gave us pieces that we were missing."*

"Like what?" Hermione inquired.

He paced. "She worked at the museum, so he need her expertise. Soo Lin was an expert in antiquities, valuable antiquities."

"China's ancient relics," Hermione supplied. "The Black Lotus is smuggling them out of China and selling them here in the West."

He nodded. "Exactly."

Then, almost immediately, Hermione's face brightened. "The Ming vases!" When she received no response from him, or John for that matter, she continued, "There's going to be an auction for two Ming vases soon. Van Coon and Lukis must've smuggled them out of China."

"And if so, that means that both men have smuggled more antiquities into Britain before," John said, sitting up straighter.

"So, if one of them did get greedy, they must have stolen something when they were in China," he said.

" _That's why Zhi Zhu's come_ ," John replied.*

A knock on the door caused them to turn around. Mrs. Hudson peaked inside the apartment, her face pinched just slightly and asked, "Uh, are we collecting for charity?"

His brows furrowed. " _What?_ "*

" _There's a young man outside with crates of books_ ," the landlady answered.*

Absentmindedly, he waved his hand. "Send them up."

Mrs. Hudson still had that pinched look on her face when she left, but he didn't concern himself with the observation for another moment. Instead, he turned back to Hermione and John.

"Now, all we need to do is find the book that will solve the message," he explained.

"The numbers are references to books," Hermione said.

He nodded. " _To specific pages and specific words on those pages_."*

" _Right. So, fifteen and one, that means?_ " John asked.*

" _Turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read_ ," he finished.*

By then, some of Dimmock's men came tromping up the stairs carrying the crates. Both Hermione and John moved to the kitchen as to not get in the way, but he remained standing where he was. Of course, this obviously annoyed the men carrying the crates, as they had to manoeuvre around him, but he was unconcerned.

When the men finished, he moved to the crate nearest him and began rifling through it. Hermione followed his lead without prompting, but John was a little more reluctant. Eventually, his flatmate began to help.

* * *

He huffed when the book in his hands proved to be useless. Raking a hand through his hair, he tossed the tome in his grasp back into the crate. With a sigh, he tore his eyes away from the crate to catalogue John and Hermione's progress.

The doctor was at the table again and looking through the stacks there. Every so often, John would nod off before shaking away the drowsiness. He turned away from John and sought out Hermione.

She was curled in his chair, hands pillowing her cheek and curls tumbling over the arm. On her feet were the oddest socks he had ever seen—they were pink with black stripes, or black with pink stripes, with individual sleeves for each toe. A little bit of drool trickled out of the side of her mouth, and he smirked just a little bit.

It was then that his chest contracted.

He knew now why his head and his heart were in agreeance. Even with the ridiculous socks on her feet and the drool running down her cheek, she was still beautiful to him. Now more than ever, he sure that he would not be able to live without her again.

 _Never, ever again_.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE** | Thank you if you take the time to support the story through reviews! I appreciate them, and I love hearing your thoughts about the story!

 _Thanks for reading!_


	6. COUPLES, CIRCUS, CRISIS

CHAPTER SIX

COUPLES, CIRCUS, CRISIS

* * *

 _August 1995_

His body was almost vibrating from his nerves and his palms were sweaty. Despite the crisp air, perspiration trickled down the back of his neck.

In his hand, he twirled a burgundy carnation. The meaning of the flower wasn't lost on him, but the meaning of other coloured carnations didn't adequately describe his feeling towards Hermione. He held a deep affection for her, despite their short acquaintance, but in the month that he'd known her, Hermione had managed to make a place for her inside his heart, and only one other being resided there—Redbeard.

Rolling his shoulders, he cast another glance at the park gate, frowning when he found it closed still. Of course, he was early, but only by fifteen minutes. It was a miracle he'd managed to show up _just_ fifteen minutes to seven. Had he not stopped himself, he would've been here five hours ago.

The screech of the gate's hinges caught his attention, and he whirled around. When his eyes landed on Hermione, his mouth dried and all his nerves calmed.

In actuality, she wasn't wearing anything overtly spectacular. Her dress had thin straps and a pattern of white daisies, and she wore a white t-shirt underneath it. White socks and trainers adorned her feet, and overall, her outfit was simple. Nonetheless, she was a vision.

Hermione grinned widely at him, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright. He swallowed the dryness away and shuffled over to her. When he was close enough, he thrust his arm out, nearly hitting her in the face with the carnation.

"Hello," he mumbled, heat washing over his face. "This is for you."

"Oh, it's lovely," she said, taking it. "Thank you." Reaching up, she pushed some of her curls behind her ear and then did the same with the carnation. "There." She tilted her head to the side, posing. "How do I look?"

Flames licked at his cheeks, but he said, "You look beautiful."

The blush that stained her cheeks then made him feel better. She reached up, standing on the tips of her toes, and pecked his cheek, managing to wash away his all of embarrassment. Grinning slightly, he grasped her hand in his and gave it a slight squeeze.

"Ready?"

Lacing their fingers together, she replied, "Let's go."

* * *

He was going to die—he was sure. However, if he were going to die that night, at least he would've gone out with a smile on his face. Hermione laughed at the film, pressing into his side and holding his hand. The red carnation was still behind her ear. Watching her with a heart so full of joy, he basked in her presence.

So filled was his heart that it hurt to breathe, and at times, it was hard to do so. Hermione looked up at him then and beamed widely. His pulse spiked, and there were no doubts in his mind that he'd either expire from his heart failing to hold in all the delight ravaging his system.

Thankfully, the film ended, which meant that they'd be able to leave and that'd he get some fresh air. Hermione's sweet scent was distracting and it made heat surge in his veins if he allowed his thoughts to stray. Despite having shared their first kiss—or rather, _kisses_ —a week prior, they hadn't kissed again yet, but whenever they met now, they would hold hands, or he would hold her as she curled into his chest.

They stood when the lights returned. Taking her coat, he helped her put it on, steadfastly ignoring the delighted titters of the elderly couple sitting behind them. When her coat was on, Hermione turned around and pecked him on the cheek, making the warmth blanketing his face was worth it.

Hurriedly, he led them out of the cinema and into the crisp, summer air. He inhaled deeply, trying to tamp down the flames roaring in his blood.

Hermione was a "cuddler," not that he minded, but it certainly didn't help his situation. Even now, she kept close to his side, her little hand in his large hand, her side pressed into his side, and her head resting on his shoulder. Her contented exhale sunk deep into his bones...and his lower extremities.

It seemed like his hormones ignited every time he was near her, and he fought valiantly to defuse them because he cared very much for Hermione. The brunette was warm, brilliant, pretty, and already important to him, but and the fact the she was _his girlfriend_ , made her even more so. Yet, the fact remained that he was a teenage boy, and having repressed his hormones from the moment he hit puberty, he was becoming more and more susceptible to lust.

That ardour was already beginning to affect his sleep.

Before, he'd rarely dreamed, but shortly after he'd realised his feelings for Hermione, he dreamed more often. Of course, his REM sleep in the beginning consisted of rather innocent pictures and sequences, like them holding hands or simply enjoying each other's company. It went on like that for a while, until he kissed her.

And then his dreams had changed.

More often than not, he would wake up aching and shamed. He'd only just kissed her and he was already dreaming of doing more than just a heated snog on a park bench with her!

Not only was he suffering, but his sheets were too. It was a rather good thing that his mother paid little attention to him. He was sure that if she were more observant of him, she would undoubtedly notice that he was suddenly doing his own laundry and quite often.

"Are you hungry?" he asked rather suddenly, more to keep his mind away from _those_ thoughts than anything else.

Hermione looked up at him, amber-brown eyes wide. "Um, are you? I mean, we've just had a tub of popcorn and enough candy to give heart attacks to my parents."

"Just a tad," he lied, not looking at her so she didn't see through him.

"All right," she said. "Where do you want to go?"

"What time do you need to be back?" he inquired, turning back to her.

She looked away from him, biting her lower lip. "Well, you see, I, uh, kind of told Ron's mum that I was going to stay with my parents for the day, and my parents think I'm still staying with Ron's family at Harry's godfather's house."

After absorbing the information she gave him, his brows furrowed. "Why did you tell them that?"

Hermione turned, looking up at him through her lashes. "I don't want to lose time with you," she said softly.

That gave him pause. "W-What do you mean?"

A beat of silence passed, and he watched her struggle to explain herself. Without so much as another thought, he pulled her along and led them to the park that was a little ways down and on the other side of the street. There, he brought them to a bench, and while there was a quite of bit of space separating them, he didn't let go of her hand.

While waiting for her to explain why she feared losing time with him, he stared unseeingly at a lamppost and tried to ignore the cyclone of thoughts in his mind.

He tried not thinking deeply, because he knew that if he allowed himself to delve further than the surface of his thoughts, he would start pushing Hermione away. Then, that would lead to him closing himself off from her, and once he finished building walls around his heart to protect it from hurt, he would sever all of his connections to her and lock every thought and memory of her away so she wouldn't hurt him. And when that happened, he knew that his life would never be the same, because Hermione had become such a significant part of his life that he needed her as much as he needed air to breathe or water to drink.

Quickly, she was becoming his everything, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to handle life without her. The pretty brown-eyed, ink-stained fingered girl with a mane of curls beside him was light in his gloomy world. If she left or if he pushed her away, the sun might as well vanish from space.

All his life, he'd had so little brightness and affection in it. He vaguely remembered the affection his parent once showered him with when he was younger. However, by the time he'd turned five, they'd shifted their attention to his brother and his many academic achievements.

Perhaps this was why he was so dependent on Hermione. Maybe because of his lack of affection growing up, when Hermione offered it so readily to him, he grabbed onto it with both hands and clutched it to his chest as a child would do to a precious toy. From there, it was possible that he had developed a sort of obsession with her, which could explain his need to keep her close to him.

Yet, none of those speculations made much sense. They were plausible, but they didn't adequately explain why Hermione was so important to him as more than just his friend. Those speculations didn't spell out the reason why Hermione was in his heart when his family wasn't.

The soft, tentative squeeze of his hand drew his attention.

Turning, he watched Hermione raised their clasped hands and place it on her lap. She didn't speak for a while, her bottom lip caught by her top teeth.

Without looking at him she said, "I'm leaving for school next Friday."

His brows furrowed then. "That shouldn't be a problem...should it?" Clearing his throat to rid his voice of the slight rasp of it, he continued before she could reply. "I mean, I go to a boarding school as well. I'm sure we can find time for a phone call every so often, and we can see each other during winter holidays."

The grip she had on his hand tightened and he flinched. In his neck, his pulse began to race. She still wasn't looking at him, but he could still see every detail of her face. War raged in her eyes, and then, she blinked rapidly, startling him.

He slid closer to her, and wrapped her in his arms, her distress pulsating from her and seeping into him. Hermione shuddered, but clung to him, her arms going around his waist to grasp the back of his coat. Gently, he combed his fingers through her hair, struggling to stay here with her and not retreat into himself.

"You know," she said, the sound muffled by his coat. "I didn't expect for us to be more than acquaintances." Not really knowing how to respond, he simply continued to play with her hair as she went on. "But I'm glad we became friends. It just surprises me that we got on so well, so fast.

"And to tell you the truth, I care for you so, _so_ much Sherlock," she whispered. Pulling back, she lifted her head and met his gaze. "I don't want to lose you."

"You won't lose me," he replied just as quietly.

" _Sherlock_ —" Her grip on his coat tightened. "—I told you about my school, remember? Mobile phones don't work because the school is so far out. As for holidays, I'm not sure about that."

"We can write to each other then," he said, grasping at straws. "You said can get mail. And if we can't see each other for holidays, that's fine. We'll just have to wait for next summer." He pinched her nose then. "Don't worry too much over it, okay? Let's enjoy the time we have together."

He saw the conflict in her eyes, and knew she wanted to say more. Before she could fray her nerves any more, he leaned in and kissed her despite the turmoil in his head and heart. It took her a moment before she responded with fervour.

Pulling back, he smiled despite the weight sitting insistently on his chest, and Hermione did the same despite the storm still in her eyes. He pinched her nose again, which brightened her grin and her gaze, and pulled her to stand with him.

With a tug of her hand, he started leading her to the Tube station. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" she asked.

He smirked, but kept dragging her along. "Well, since you lied to your friends to stay with me, that's what you're going to do."

* * *

 _March 2010_

The early morning light streamed in through the windows. John's alarm went off and the doctor groaned softly as he checked it. Hermione, however, was still sleeping, and there was still drool trickling from her mouth.

He dropped the book in his grasp, and ran his hands through his hair, sighing deeply. The three of them had spent most of the night searching for the book that would break the Black Lotus's code. Of course, he'd done most of the searching, as John had dozed off more than once and Hermione had fallen asleep sometime around three in the morning, but that hadn't deterred him.

So far, they were unsuccessful.

John rose from his place at the table against the wall, and trudged from the room, muttering something about needing to go to work. When the doctor was gone, he moved from his place behind the bins of books to his chair.

Carefully, he bent down and hefted Hermione into his arms. He carried her from the main room into his bedroom. There, he gently set her on the bed and wrapped the lime-green sheets around her. The brunette sighed as she burrowed deeper into the covers. Turning, he left the room, leaving the door ajar on his way out to finish searching for the book.

* * *

He was going mad. So far, none of the books he'd searched through broke the code, and he'd just finished searching all of the bins.

Dropping the Bible and the OED atop the other books inside a bin, he pulled at his hair and sighed loudly. John and Hermione entered the room then. The doctor was smiling slightly and looking a little dazed while the brunette was beaming widely.

Without so much as another glance at them, he said, "I need some fresh air. We're going out tonight."

"Can't. I have a date tonight," John said, smirking.

He looked to Hermione then. "Is he serious?"

"And why wouldn't he be?" she questioned, arching her brow.

"Do you really want me to answer that question?" he returned, ignoring the indignant cry from John.

The woman nodded. "Good point."

Back to John, he said, " _Where are you taking her_?"*

" _Er, cinema_ ," the doctor responded.*

For a brief moment, Hermione's doors in his Mind Palace opened, and the flash of a memory took his breath away.

 _Please? Pretty please, Sherlock?_

 _You said that the_ last _time we went to the cinema._

"Sherlock?"

Blinking, he realised Hermione was standing next to him. Her amber-brown eyes bore into his eyes and he shifted away from her, finding her presence stifling.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You look faint."

He shook his head. "I'm fine."

Shoving his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the piece of a poster he had torn off the night he and John had found the graffiti by the tracks. He stepped around Hermione, and handed the slip of crumpled paper to John.

"The cinema is unoriginal," he said, his tone blasé as always. "Try this."

The doctor inspected the paper, before looking at him. " _Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice._ "*

With that, John left the room and he rolled his eyes at the doctor's tetchiness. Hermione laughed behind him, and he stifled his chuckle. However, just as quickly as his amusement came, it vanished.

He knew that John was going to take his date to the circus—the doctor was predictable like that. John would call the circus to reserve tickets in advance, and in _his_ name no less, and he would call back to change the reservation, though that was not troubling him. What was troubling him was trying to get Hermione to agree to go with him to the circus without knowing that they would be ruining John's date. There was no doubt in his mind that Hermione would refuse to go if she knew.

Turning around, he found the brunette digging through the bins again. He stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out a way to get her to go with him to the circus. Then, he noted her appearance, which consisted of her wearing one of _his_ jumpers and cotton sleeping bottoms.

"Are those... _my clothes_?" he asked, incredulous.

Hermione glanced up from the books in her hands, to him, then to what she was wearing, and back to him. "Maybe," she replied.

His brows furrowed. "Why are you wearing my clothes?"

"Mine are in the wash," she said nonchalantly.

Even though her answer hardly satisfied him, he shook his head and returned to the task at hand: getting Hermione to go with him to the circus. He was in his Mind Palace for no more than a minute before the solution smacked him in the face: he could ask her out on a date.

And in the next instant, pain seized every single cell and nerve of his body so violently, he could not breathe.

The idea of taking Hermione on a date wasn't what agonised him. What tormented him, his head and his heart, was the fact that Hermione did not remember him. To her, this date would be their first date, and even then, she probably did not look at him romantically.

Of course, he still cared deeply for her, but he was unsure of his feelings, for it'd been so long since he'd last seen her let alone been with her. Since that summer, he'd thought of her sporadically over the years and had purposely kept her and any thoughts or memories of her locked away. However, now that she was here, back in his life again, all those emotions, musings, and recollections were coming back to him, and he was unable to lock them away again. He couldn't deny his feelings, but at the same time, he could not acknowledge them.

Shaking his head, he cleared his throat before looking to Hermione again. She was still digging through the bins, humming an unfamiliar tune as she went through the crates.

Not looking at her, but rather, into the bin, he said, "I assume you will be ready in an hour."

"What?"

Still focusing on the bin, he elaborated. "Since John has his... _date_ , that leaves the two of us for our excursion. You will be ready to leave in an hour, yes?"

A beat of silence passed then, and he finally looked up from the bin to her. She was staring at him, her brows pinched just slightly. Heat tickled the back of his neck, but he kept his face impassive.

"Uh, I'm sorry, but what are you trying to say?"

Clearing his throat again, he said, "I can't think, so I need to go out for some fresh air. Because of John's date, our outing will only consist of us two."

The crease between her brows disappear, however, her eyes twinkled with amusement. More heat filled his face.

"Sherlock, are you...trying to ask me out on a... _date_?" she asked.

He sighed heavily. "Just answer the question already, woman."

"...sure. Why not? I'll go change."

"I will get your coat then."

* * *

His mood had gone from foul to outright noxious in the span of ten minutes. John had already left to pick up his date not ten minutes ago, and he was still waiting for Hermione to finish getting ready. Really, it shouldn't have taken her a whole hour to shower and change.

Then, if she'd heard his thought, the brunette strode into the room and he stopped breathing for a moment. Of course, there really was nothing extraordinary about her clothing. She wore a beige jumper accented with black stripes, dark jeans, brown boots, and a black scarf. Though he tried not to, he _did_ notice the way the jeans define the curves of her hips and legs.

What really took his breath away, however, was the radiant smile on her face and gleam in in her eyes. Her smile and eyes were bright enough to rival the shine of all the lights in London.

And the very sight of it made his blood warm.

"Ready?" she asked, twisting her hair into an updo.

He nodded because of the dryness in his mouth. Standing, he gave her her coat, but did not move to help her into it despite his fervent urge to do so. When she was done, he briskly led her downstairs and out onto the street; the cab he'd called for was already waiting for them.

Hermione climbed into the cab first. "Where are we going?"

Rather than answer her, he gave the cabbie the address to their destination. She huffed beside him, and he allowed himself to smirk, but only slightly. Then, she continued to badger him with questions, but he didn't give in and answer her.

"For Merlin's sake, Sherlock, will you please just tell me where we're going?" she asked, though it was more of a demand.

"Don't worry. We'll be there soon," he said.

She opened her mouth to respond, but the cabbie finally pulled up to the address. Even from metres away, he was able to spot John and his date. Without glancing at the cabbie, he paid the fare and tugged Hermione out of the vehicle with him.

"Sherlock!"

Stopping, he turned around, and blinked rapidly at the scowl on her face. She tore her wrist from his grasp, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"What?" he asked.

"Sherlock, this is where John is having his date," she said. "What are we doing here?"

"Must you really ask that?" he replied.

Her face pinched. "What?"

"Think, Hermione, think. What must a person do to have enough dexterity to break into flats more than three stories up?"

Realisation sparked in her eyes. "Oh! You think one of the acrobats is our killer?"

"No. I don't think, I _know_ one of the acrobats is our killer."

"But we'll crash John's date."

"Not if we tell him _we're_ on a date."

"I thought we were on a date," she said, voice soft.

In his throat, his pulse faltered. "W-Well, you see—"

"—Never mind, Sherlock. Let's just go catch our killer."

She hurried up the stairs, and all he could do was watch her go, his chest uncomfortably tight.

* * *

Sometimes, he envied Hermione. In a matter of minutes, the brunette had managed to diffuse the awkwardness of the situation—their intruding on John's date—and was now chatting amicably with John's date

 _Blast! What was her name? Sandra? Sierra?_

Shaking his head, he redirected his attention to assessing their surroundings. When a woman dressed in the make-up and robes of the Chinese opera, he focused on her.

The opera singer didn't speak as she uncovered a large, ancient Chinese crossbow on a tripod. She then began demonstrating the sensitivity of the crossbow, and when the audience jumped back in surprise, he rolled his eyes, though he noted that Hermione did not make a show of her surprise as John's date— _Susan? Shannon?_ —did.

A masked warrior appeared then, and two men began strapping him to the board of wood across from the crossbow. He explained the act to his companions, much to John's evident annoyance, but Hermione and John's date— _What was her name?_ —appeared genuinely intrigued. As soon as the opera singer split the sandbag and the women returned to watching the act, he slipped away and headed backstage.

Carefully, he moved through the dressing area despite the fact that it was empty. He paid little mind to the costumes littering the chairs and tables, but he did examine the mannequin of a Chinese warlord. After a moment, he moved away from the mannequin and went to peek through the curtains.

" _Sherlock,_ _what are you doing_?"

He spun around quickly at the fierce whisper and nearly toppled over the rack of costumes behind him.

Hermione was there, glaring at him with her hands on her hips. If the situation allowed it, he would've grinned at her ire, for her anger never failed to amuse him. However, now wasn't the time for his amusement.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asked quietly, ignoring her inquiry.

"I asked you first," she replied, just as quiet.

"How else are we going to find our killer?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe by watching the acts?" She shook her head. "Really, Sherlock, sometimes I feel like you need to be kept on a leash."

He smirked. "Now, where's the fun in that?"

Before she could respond, footsteps sounded. He moved without thought, and grabbed her wrist, dragging her behind the rack of costumes. Ducking, they both kept silent and peered through the costumes to find the opera singer entering the dressing room. The woman checked a cell phone before returning to the stage.

Simultaneously, they sighed. Hermione grinned at him, and he smirked in response. She started to stand, but stopped when she looked down. Following her gaze, he found what she was looking at—a black bag filled with aerosol cans.

He grabbed a can and moved from behind the rack, and tested the paint on a mirror. The paint was yellow.

" _Found you_ ," he said.*

"Come on. We have to get back before John notices that we're gone," Hermione said.

Nodding, they moved towards the door, but he halted at the sight of the mannequin again. There was something... _different_ about it this time. Of course, the getup was the same—green robes and warlord headdress—but that wasn't what troubled him.

"Sherlock, what are you—"

The mannequin moved then, brandishing a long sword, and he jumped back. Hermione yelped behind him, and he moved to shield her. Narrowly, he dodged a swipe of the warlord's sword and managed to keep his footing at the same time. He kept pushing Hermione back towards the door all the while evading the sweeps and thrusts of the warlord's blade.

Gripping the paint can firmly, he brought it up to their attacker's face just as the man raised his sword again, and sprayed the paint. The warlord cried out, and he seized the moment by tackling the man. They both went tumbling through the curtains together.

He wrestled his way out of the curtains that had fallen on them. However, the warlord swung a leg around and kicked his legs out from under him. The air rushed from his lungs when he hit the floor, ripping a groan past his lips.

A shadow fell over his face, and the warlord towered over him, sword raised in the air. Before he could blink let alone react, a lithe shape crashed into his attacker's chest.

John was at his side then, helping him up, and they both watched in awe as Hermione—for the lack of a better phrase—handed the warlord his arse. When the warlord finally went down with another kick to the chest from the brunette, he staggered over to the man and ripped off a shoe, revealing a tattoo on the man's heel.

It was the mark of the Black Lotus.

"Come on," he said, though it was more of a rasp.

Without arguing, Hermione grabbed his hand and they hurried out towards the exit.

* * *

Sighing, he fell into his armchair as Hermione fell into John's seat. After leaving the police station, John had taken his date—he'd given up trying to remember her name—home. He stared at Hermione, absently watching her remove her hair from the updo.

"They're gone," she said, tugging off her coat and scarf. "What are we going to do now?"

"They haven't left yet," he said, also tugging off his scarf and coat. "They don't have what they're looking for, so they won't leave. Not yet." He stood and moved to the mantle. "We need to find their hideout."

"But we need to decipher the code for that," she replied. "I'll look through the books again."

He heaved a sigh as he tugged at his hair. "I'll study the numbers again."

Just as they both moved to complete their tasks, John entered the lounge, a frown on his face.

"What's the matter, John?" Hermione asked.

"Sarah—" _So_ that _was her name._ "—enjoyed the date," the doctor replied.

"...and that bothers you because?"

"Well, I thought Massive Intellect over there had scared her off."

He turned to them. "I beg your pardon?"

"Did you get a second date?" the brunette asked, ignoring him.

John's frown turned into a grin. "I did."

"You can never go wrong with dinner and a movie," she said.

"Speaking of dinner, are you hungry? Should we order take-away?"

"As long as it's not Chinese, I'm fine with anything you want."

The doctor moved into the kitchen to order the take-away, and Hermione returned to sorting through the bins. He continued to stare at her, brows pinched, but eventually returned to the printout in his hand.

"So where do we go from here?" John asked upon returning to the main room.

"We need to find their hideout, so that means we have to break the code," Hermione responded. "I'm looking through the books again, while Sherlock is studying the numbers."

"Oh, all right. I'll just help you then, yeah?"

He narrowed his gaze at John as the doctor moved to look through the same bin as the brunette. Green fire surged through his blood. Turning away from them, he went back to his task. However, after five minutes of simply staring at the printout in his hand, he growled under his breath.

Standing, he made to move to the bin, but the sight of Hermione's coat stopped him—there was something sticking out of her pocket. By the shape and size, it was a book of some sort. He strode over to John's chair, and tugged the book from her pocket.

It was Van Coon's London A to Z.

The doorbell drew his attention away from the guidebook.

"That was fast," Hermione said. "I'll go get the food."

He pulled some crumpled bank notes from his pocket and gave them to her. "Here. Food's on me."

For a moment, she stared at him with wide eyes, and just as heat began to fill his cheeks, she grinned at him. Nodding her head, she left the room and he returned his attention to the guidebook.

 _Isn't it odd that a man native to London would need a guidebook? And highlight arbitrary words?_

"I wonder," he murmured.

Opening the book, he turned to page fifteen and sought out the first word. What he found almost made him drop the book—the first word was "Deadman."

"John!" he called, turning to the general direction of the doctor. When his flatmate neared him, he shoved the book to him. "What page is this and what's the first word on that page?"

The doctor took the book from him, almost hesitantly, but did as he said. John's eyes widened with realisation. "Sherlock, is this—"

"—This is the book we're looking for," he said, unable to suppress his grin.

John grinned as well. "Then what are you doing just standing around? Break the code!"

Without so much as a response, he moved to the table against the wall and began translating the code. He'd finished with the first two words when John said, "Hermione's been gone a while. I'm going to check on her."

He didn't respond verbally, but he waved his hand absently in agreement. All of his focus was on break the code, so he hardly noted John leaving the room. Ten minutes later, he finished, and managed to topple his chair when he stood up.

"'' _Nine Mill Fore Jade Pin. Dragon Den Black Tramway_ ,'" he read aloud. "John, Hermione, I've got it!"*

Looking around, he found no sign of them. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and alarms sounded in his Mind Palace. He dropped the printout and hurried downstairs only to stop at the foot of them. Every ounce of blood in his body froze at the sight that greeted him.

Sprayed on the gaping front door were two Chinese numerals—the death cipher.

* * *

With the quiet footsteps, he slithered towards the end of the tunnel. He ducked behind some stacked oil drums, and crept closer to the cluster of people gathered around one of the "hobo fires." Clinging to the shadows, he stopped once he was close enough to eavesdrop.

He glared at the two men and the woman; they were from the circus—the warlord; the spider, Zhi Zhu; and the opera singer. The woman spoke in Mandarin, and gestured wildly to John and Hermione. Nodding, the men moved towards the shadows and returned not a moment later.

From what he could tell, they were pushing the crossbow from the circus. They kept the cover on the instrument, and placed it away from their hostages. The opera singer said something else to them, and they returned to her side. Picking up a water bottle from a bag at her feet, she uncapped it and pour the water over John's face then Hermione's face.

They both woke with a jolt, and he slunk back towards the entrance of the tunnel to formulate some semblance of a rescue place. Of course, he really didn't have much time considering the fact that the opera singer, who had now revealed herself to be "Shan," held a gun to John's head.

" _Everything in the west has its price_."*

At Shan's words, he turned and nearly bolted from his hiding place. Uncovered, the crossbow was faintly lit by one of the oil drum fires. The warlord dragged Hermione's chair around the instrument and placed it directly in the path of the arrow. John began shouting, begging them to let her go as he squirmed in his bindings. Instead, Shan dug her knife into the sandbag, and laid something on Hermione's lap.

The brunette didn't scream, but she thrashed and struggled violently against her bindings. He couldn't breathe, because he was too focused on the fear rioting in her amber-brown eyes. Without so much as another thought, he jumped out of his hiding place.

" _You should, you know_ ," he said, catching everyone's attention. Immediately, Shan turned her gun to him. " _Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him_."*

Once again, he ducked behind the stack oil drums when the warlord hurried towards him. Feeling around, he grasped a length of a pipe, and waited for Shan's henchman to get closer.

" _How would you describe me, John_?" he asked, almost nonchalantly. " _Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?_ "*

The relief was blaring in John's voice. " _Late_?"*

" _That's a semi-automatic_ ," he said, keeping close to the shadows. " _If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand_ _metres_ _per second_."*

" _Well_?" Shan responded.*

" _Well_ —" He jumped out from the shadows just behind the warlord and hit him in the back of his head with the pipe. When the man fell, he returned to the shadows. "— _the radius curvature of the walls is nearly four metres. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you_."*

By then, he'd crept closer to the nearest oil drum fire, and kicked it over. The tunnel darkened slightly, but it was enough for him to hurry towards Hermione. Quickly, he went to work on freeing her, his heart hammering savagely against his sternum.

"It's all right," he murmured. "I'm here. I've got you."

" _Sherlock!_ "

He heard John's cry too late, for in the next instant, there was something wrapped around his neck. Someone tugged the length of the rope back, ripping him away from Hermione. Glancing back, he saw Zhi Zhu, the spider, rushing towards him.

With a swiftness that dizzied him, Zhi Zhu danced around him, spinning more silk around him and pulling every so often to tighten it. He jerked against the rope, falling over in the process as he fought his way towards Hermione. However, the more he fought, the more the rope tightened and constricted his movements.

John was struggling to break free as well, and the weight was so, _so_ close to the spring mechanism. The doctor fell over his chair during his struggles, but the way he fell over immobilised him further. His flatmate's face was pressing into the ground, arms locked behind the chair, and legs caught by the weight of the chair.

Another tug on the cord tore him further from Hermione. Zhi Zhu had managed to cocoon him in the rope, and he could move no longer. As much as he struggled, he could not break free from his bondage. His bonds were chaffing his flesh from his struggles; his wrists and neck were already bleeding. The weight was centimetres from the spring mechanism, and every single cell in his body died in that instant.

" _Hermione!_ "

Finally, the weight touched spring mechanism and time slowed. In the matter of seconds, he saw Hermione's eyes close and John's did the same. He blinked and a wave of warmth blanketed him as sound ravaged his ear drums. A breeze lashed at his face, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut.

When he open them again, the crossbow was nothing more than a pile of splintered wood. All around them, pieces of the instrument littered the ground. Looking to Hermione, he found unharmed and alive, but still bound to her chair.

It was then he noticed the ropes around him were slack. Turning, he nearly flinched at the sight that greeted him. Zhi Zhu was dead, killed by shrapnel from the crossbow.

Shimmying out of the ropes, he scrambled over to Hermione and freed her. She fell into him the moment she was no longer bound, and he held her close, his hold on her almost bruising.

They would have remained like that for a while had it not been for John.

"If you two don't mind, I'd like to be freed as well."

* * *

Sleep evaded him later that night. He was unable to keep his eyes closed for long, because some part of him worried that if he did, someone or something would take Hermione from him again.

After wrapping up the ordeal at the tramway, in which neither of them could explain the destruction of the crossbow, they'd returned home. John had wasted no time retreating to his room for some much needed sleep. As for Hermione, she'd softly bade him a good night after dressing his wounds. He'd then fallen onto the couch, and had yet to move.

He sat up from his reclining place on the couch as the patter of soft footsteps came from the direction of his room.

The object of his thoughts appeared in the doorway of the lounge, once again dressed in his jumper and cotton sleeping bottoms. She looked to him then away as she fiddled with the hem of his jumper. Seconds ticked by when she returned her gaze to him.

"I can't sleep," she whispered, biting her bottom lip.

"Neither can I," he said softly, half-surprised he was admitting it.

Hermione shifted her stance. "You don't have to, but, uh...will you sleep with me tonight?"

A little voice in the back of his head told him that he should decline her request, but he was _so_ tired. He really need to sleep, and all those hours he had spent awake working on the case when he should've been sleeping finally caught up to him. So, it was with a slow nod that he stood and followed Hermione into his bedroom.

Tension filled the silence between them. Stiffly, he gathered his night clothes from his chest of drawers, and retreated to the bathroom to change. When he finished, he robotically climbed into his bed, vaguely noticing that she slept on the side he didn't usually sleep on, and pulled the covers over him.

After a few more moments of awkward silence, Hermione huffed and rolled over so that she was facing him. She burrowed herself into the covers, pillowed her cheek with her hands, and wished him good night. Minutes later, she was sound asleep.

His body finally released the tension it was holding, and he turned on his side as well. Scooting closer towards the brunette, he trailed his knuckles down her cheek before falling asleep as well.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE** | And so we conclude "The Blink Banker" and move onto "The Great Game." For the next episode, however, it won't be more than two chapters long because I don't want to spend too much time on going over things we already know. I know that we'd all love to see Hermione partake in solving the next case, but also I know we're all antsy for Hermione to get her memory back. And let me tell you now, you guys may or may not be expecting the resolution for that.

*I uploaded Hermione's date outfits to the _Overdose_ Photo Album. The link, if you don't already know, is on my profile.

Thank you so much if you take the time to support the story. I appreciate all the support I get, but I especially like reviews because I love hearing your thoughts! Your support motivates me to update sooner, though do try hard to do so already.

 _Thanks for reading!_


	7. THE BEGINNING'S END

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE BEGINNING'S END

* * *

Warmth shrouded him, reaching his bones. Slowly, as he climbed from sleep, his eyes opened, but he squinted at the soft light filtering in through his window.

Blinking, he, for the first time in years, simply basked in the pleasant sensations coursing through him. There was a contentment thrumming in his blood, and he sighed, allowing a pleased grin to stretch across his lips.

Then, he noticed Hermione, and stilled when he set his eyes on her.

She was still asleep, her breathing heavy and soft. One of her arms laid across his chest, while one of her legs sat curled across his pelvis. As for him, he had one arm curled under her shoulders while the other pillowed his head. Some drool trickled down her chin, and her normally wild curls were a great mass of brown.

Carefully, he turned his head. She had her head tucked into the curve of his neck and shoulder. By moving his head, he managed to nuzzle his nose into her hair. He inhaled the sweet scent of her shampoo.

In this faint morning light, she wasn't ethereal or utterly beautiful—though she _was_ beautiful to him no matter what. She was far from angelic, and not even remotely close to any sort of flowery description he'd heard and read about women.

There were only two words her could use to describe her at this moment. She was _real_ , and she was _here_ —in his bed, curled against his side, head resting on his shoulder. The scent and warmth of her drowned him, and he really couldn't fight the lethargy unfurling beneath his skin. It sank and settled into him, and he could scarcely recall the last time he'd ever been so relaxed.

Perhaps the last time he'd been so at peace, he'd been in some sort of high. Even then, however, he hadn't been at peace, because drugs had numbed him. However, lying here in the early morning light with Hermione beside him, he was tranquil for the first time in perhaps years.

 _This_ was true peace.

Hermione shifted then, and he froze again. She slid her hand down his torso to curl around his waist and pressed closer to him. The new closeness didn't bother him, but much to his horror and embarrassment, his lower extremities began to tingle.

Quickly but cautiously, he extricated himself from the snare of Hermione's limbs. When he was free, he hurried to the bathroom and the claw foot tub-shower. He stripped rapidly and stepped into the tub. The moment the frigid water hit him, the tingling went away and he sighed in relief.

Really, Hermione's presence shouldn't have affected him so. He was a thirty-one year old man for Deduction's sake! Moreover, he had long since mastered the art of controlling his hormones, so her closeness shouldn't have bothered him at all.

 _Who are you fooling?_

He sighed; she still had him wrapped around her finger despite the fact that she had no recollection of him whatsoever.

In all the time that she'd been gone from his life, he'd been a man of more cerebral pursuits than anything else. He'd locked away his body's need for affection and intimacy since she had left, as she'd been the only to rouse such desires from him. However, now that she was back, he shouldn't have been surprised that his more carnal needs would make themselves known.

 _Blast._

Shaking his head, he finished showering simultaneously hoping the needs he'd stifled for so long would not come back to bite him on the arse—for the lack of a better phrase.

 _One can only hope_.

* * *

Hermione had confiscated his gun— _again_. Really, what else was there for him to do when he was so _bored_? Of course, she didn't care, and he glared at the brunette as she went about organising the kitchen.

John entered the lounge then, a grin on his face. He rolled his eyes at the doctor's evidently pleasant mood, and sunk lower in his armchair.

"Why are you sulking?" John asked,

Huffing, he stood and sauntered over to the couch. He gathered his dressing gown around him and fell onto the sofa. Soft laughter touched his ears, diminishing his rather black mood only slightly.

"Don't mind him, John," Hermione said, entering the room. "He's only upset that I took his pistol away from him."

The doctor's brows furrowed. "Why did you take his gun away?"

She nodded her head in his direction—or more specifically, at the wall. "He was shooting the wall again."

Sitting up ever so slightly, he shot a scowl at her. "Are you wearing my jumper again?"

At least, she had the decency to look slightly sheepish this time. "They're comfortable."

Unabashedly, he snorted and turned his head to stare at the ceiling. " _Don't know what's got into the criminal classes_. _Good job I'm not one of them_."*

"Is he serious?" John asked.

"When was the last time Sherlock was anything _but_ serious, sarcastic, or snarky?" Hermione replied.

He looked to them. "Pardon?"

" _What about that Russian case_?" his flatmate asked, ignoring his inquiry.*

With his feet, he pushed himself further upright. He then began to flex his toes against the arm of the couch. " _Belarus_. _Open and shut domestic murder_. _Not worth my time_."*

"So you've just been pouting like a petulant child all evening?"

"I do not pout."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"Are you two hungry?" Hermione asked, and his mood bettered instantly.

"Starving."

"Will there be sandwiches?"

The brunette glanced at both of them, as they'd spoken simultaneously, but settled her gaze on him. "Yes. I will make you sandwiches." Then, she turned to John. "What would like, John?"

"Sandwiches are fine."

His eyes narrowed at the adoration gleaming in the doctor's eyes, and his mood soured once again. John may have been his friend, though he would never admit it aloud, but whenever his flatmate gazed at Hermione with that look, he toed the line between Friend and Foe. Right now, the doctor was leaning close towards the Foe side of the spectrum. Turning away from the scene, he returned to glowering at the ceiling.

"I'll be right back then." He listened to her footsteps as she headed towards the stairs, but she stopped abruptly. "John, if you know what's good for you, don't open the fridge."

The corners of his lips twitched as he watched his flatmate's brows pinch. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Don't open the fridge." With that, Hermione continued down the stairs.

"What is she talking about?"

He turned to John and stared as the doctor took off his coat. For a brief moment, he pondered his response before saying, "I have no idea."

Of course, his words evidently piqued John's curiosity and the doctor strode into the kitchen. A moment later, the sound of the fridge opening reached him as did John's " _Oh, f_ —" and then the slam of the fridge's door.

There was a lengthy pause before John opened the fridge again. " _It's_ _a_ _head_... _a_ _severed head!_ "*

"Really? I didn't notice."

John stormed into the room. "Why is there a severed head in the fridge?"

"Why not?"

"It's a bloody head!" The doctor paused. "How _did_ you get a head in the first place?"

" _Got it from Bart's morgue_. _I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death._ "*

John had buried his head in his hands, but looked at him then. "And Hermione _let you keep_ the head?"

He really couldn't suppress his smirk then. "She's the reason Molly let me have it without much protestation in the first place."

"What?"

Dismissively, he waved his hand in the direction of the table against the wall. "I've finally read your write up of the taxi driver case."

John couldn't answer him right away because he was too busy staring at the fridge. "You have?"

"' _A Study in_ _Pink_ _.'_ Nice _._ " Really, there was nothing nice about it.*

" _Well, you know,_ _pink_ _lady,_ _pink_ _case,_ _pink_ _phone. There was_ _a_ _lot of_ _pink_ _...did you like it_?"*

"Not at all."

" _Why not? I thought you'd be flattered._ "*

He snorted and dropped the magazine he'd plucked from the coffee table onto his chest. " _Flattered?_ " Turning to John, he said, "' _Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things_.'"*

" _Now hang on_ _a_ _minute. I didn't mean that in_ _a_ —"*

"— _Oh. So you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in_ _a_ nice _way._ " He rolled his eyes. " _Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister or who's sleeping with who_ —"*

"— _Whether the Earth goes round the_ _sun_ _._ "*

"Don't tell me you're still on that." He held up his hand to stop John's triad. "No. Stop. We're not going over this again."

"Going over what?"

They both turned, and he almost sagged in relief at the sight of Hermione. If anyone thought that he got on John's nerves, they really needed to spend a day in his shoes with John. While he had nothing personal against John, sometimes it frustrated him that the doctor failed to understand him, unlike Hermione, who understood him better than his flatmate.

"Sherlock didn't know that the Earth revolves around the Sun. Says it's not important to know."

The brunette merely arched her brow at him in response. "Really?"

After tossing the magazine to the coffee table, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. "If I did, I deleted it."

"Oh."

"' _Deleted it_ '?"*

Pulling his hands away from his face, he saw Hermione nod in obvious understanding while John's face contorted because of his confusion. He swallowed hard when his gaze met Hermione's, but just as quickly as he looked to her, he turned away. With a swing of his legs, his feet touched the floor and he sat up facing John.

" _Listen_. _This_ —" He tapped his right temple. "— _is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful_. Really _useful_." Unwittingly, he grimaced. " _Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?_ "*

At that moment, Hermione handed him a plate of two butties, and he took it with a terse incline of his head in thanks. She gave him a soft smile, and his stomach knotted—in hunger of course, and not because of the fondness he saw shining in her amber-brown eyes. There was a pause in the conversation as both he and John began to eat.

" _But it's the solar system!_ "

He nearly dropped his butty in frustration. " _Oh hell! What does it_ matter?" Quickly, he set down his plate. " _So we go round the_ _Sun_ _! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like_ _a_ _teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference_."

"So you didn't know that the Earth went round the Sun, but you know _that_ _nursery rhyme_?"

"That is beside the point. The point is all that matters to me is work. _Without that, my brain rots._ "With both hands, he ruffled his hair then glared at John. _"Put_ that _in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world_."*

Grabbing his plate once more, he viciously bit into his butty before reclining back on the couch. He heard John mutter something incoherent, before the doctor set his plate down, though he did keep his sandwich in hand, and made his way towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Hermione took the words right out of his mouth.

"I'm going to Sarah's." John juggled around his sandwich as he put on his jacket. "I need some time away from _him_."

He cast a fleeting glance at his flatmate. "The feeling is mutual."

"Sherlock!"

Ignoring Hermione, he finished off his first butty and moved on to the second. He paid vague attention to the doctor's brief altercation with Mrs. Hudson before the landlady was knocking on the door. After a quick glance at her, he focused on his food once more.

" _Have you two had_ _a_ _little domestic?_ " the landlady asked.*

With a roll, he was sitting up again, and setting his plate down, he stood. To get to the window, he stepped on the coffee table and off it instead of going around it. Hermione's exasperated sigh of " _Sherlock_ " followed him.

"I'm not really sure you could call it that," Hermione said. "Good evening, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good evening, dear."

"Do you need some help with the groceries?"

"Oh no, I'll be fine, but thank you."

He scanned the street. "Look at that." Ever so slightly, his lips curled. " _Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it_ hateful?"*

"For you maybe," Hermione said, and he turned around.

" _Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder. That'll cheer you up_ ," Mrs. Hudson said, moving into the lounge.*

" _Can't come too soon_."*

" _Merlin_ , Sherlock."

Then she looked to the wall. " _Hey! What've you done to my bloody wall?_ " She turned, he smirked, and she shook a finger at him. " _I'm putting this on your rent, young man!_ "* With a huff, she stormed out of the room.

Hermione shook her head as she stood, and moved to stand before him. "You know, you shouldn't have said that to John."

His brow arched. "And this matters to me because?"

"You may not show it, and I know for sure that you would never admit it, but John is your friend, Sherlock," she said.

"I don't have friends."

"You do. You just don't want to ad—"

Then, the world erupted into a haze of heat and shattering glass.

Something knocked him forward as fire licked at his back and light prickled his eyes. Ringing blared in his ears as he landed on something soft but firm. His throat vibrated from his groan, but he couldn't hear it past the tolling in his eardrums.

Groggily, he opened his eyes, but his sight was blurred and dim. He shook his head and winced at stinging on the side of his neck. Hand shaking, he reached up and touched the place of pain. When he pulled his hand away, blood stained his fingers; his wound had reopened.

The blaring in his ears had lessened slightly, and that was when he heard the moaning. Looking down, he found that he had, in fact, landed on something soft and firm—Hermione. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees when she opened her eyes.

"W-What happened?" she muttered.

"I'm not sure," he admitted.

He nearly flinched when she touched his neck. Stilling immediately, he held his breath as she then feathered her fingers along the side of his face to his temple. She curled her fingers into his inky curls and pushed them aside.

"You're bleeding," she said.

"What?"

Pulling her hand back, she showed him her fingers. "See?"

Brows furrowing, he moved off of her and touched his temple with the heel of his palm. He pulled it away and there was blood where he had touched his head.

"Sherlock! Hermione!" He turned just as Mrs. Hudson bustled through the door. Clothes and hair askew, the landlady sighed heavily when she set her eyes on them. "Sherlock, you're bleeding! Oh! I'll go get John's first aid kit."

When the older woman bolted out of the room, he turned back to Hermione. She had sat up then, but was clutching the back of her head. Instantly, he reacted without thought, and leaned towards her.

"What's wrong? Are you all right?" He raked his eyes over her form, searching for injuries. "Were you nicked by any of the glass?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't think so. But, there is a bump on my head."

Shoulders sagging, he sat back on his heels once more. "That's all?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Hudson returned with the first aid kit and he allowed her to fuss over him with Hermione watching on, amusement shining in her eyes.

* * *

Hermione was a force of nature, really. Within ten minutes of his impromptu visit to 221B, the brunette had managed to shove a cup of tea and half a tin of Mrs. Turner's cookies at Mycroft. He fought to keep the smirk off his face as his brother finished his _second_ cup of tea. However, he _did_ look on in amusement as he plucked the strings of his violin, which he cradled to his chest.

"I see you've yet to keep my brother out of trouble, Miss Granger." Mycroft arched a brow at the brunette sitting in the chair at the table against the wall. "I'm _very_ disappointed. I thought that you would've been more than capable of accomplishing the task."

He saw Hermione shrug from the corner of his eye. "Sherlock is an adult. He can do whatever he pleases whenever he pleases. You pay me to spy on him. Not to be his keeper."

"You know what troubles me the most about you, Miss Granger—"

"—Besides the fact that you don't have access to my file?"

The corner of Mycroft's left eye twitched ever so slightly. "— _Yes_ , besides that. You're a black belt in Krav Maga. An Expert 3 as well—very impressive. Surely, you can imagine my surprise when I found out that a lowly Black Lotus grunt _actually_ managed to _ambush_ and _kidnap_ you."

"And yet you weren't surprised when they managed to do the same to John? A soldier of the British Army? _Captain_ of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?"

"It was rather unsurprising when they 'nabbed' him, but expected." Mycroft set his teacup down on the end table beside John's armchair. "John Watson is more of a doctor than a soldier."

"That still doesn't explain why my kidnapping surprised you."

"Isn't it obvious, Miss Granger? Someone of your skills and capabilities should not have been so easily overcome by some unimportant henchman."

"I'm not infallible, Mr. Holmes. It would be foolish of me to think so." She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. "However, I suggest you stop thinking yourself as unerring. If not, your 'fall from Heaven' will hurt more than you ever expected."

For a long time, Mycroft didn't respond. His brother merely stared, though it was more of a glare, at Hermione, and the brunette didn't shy away from his gaze. Instead, she met it head on and matched his brother's intensity. Minutes later, Mycroft was the one to break first and finally turned to him.

"I need to investigate the murder of Andrew West."

Hermione stood then and left the room, but not before she shot him a reassuring glance. He inclined his head just slightly, before turning back to his brother.

* * *

After another twenty minutes, Mycroft _finally_ took his leave. He stopped playing his violin once his brother was gone, but his mood was already foul. Being in Mycroft's presence for any amount of time always soured his mood.

" _Why'd you lie?_ " John asked. He cast a short glance at his flatmate just as the front door slammed shut. " _You've got nothing on. Not_ _a_ _single case … Why did you tell your brother you were busy?_ "*

He shrugged. " _Why shouldn't I?_ "*

Realisation sparked in the doctor's eyes. " _Oh! Oh, I see_." John shook his head. " _Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere._ "

"I wouldn't say it was the relationship between Sherlock and his brother was a 'sibling rivalry,'" Hermione said as she entered the room. "If anything, it's more of a 'Cain and Abel' situation."

His throat constricted when he turned to her, heart thundering in his ears. "And you believe this because?"

"Relationships are rather complex things," she began, taking a seat in John's chair. "However, familial relationships are among the most complex. For example, when you were born Sherlock, your parents would have fawned all over you as you were the baby. I assume Mycroft is _at least_ five years older than you are, so at the time, he didn't really register the threat you posed to him regarding your parents' favour.

"However, when he was old enough to realise this, he was obviously jealous, and so, he did something about it. Since he really couldn't kill you like Cain killed Abel, he decided to become the best at everything he did, most likely in hopes of garnering the attention of your parents. Mycroft probably waited until you were old enough to ruin your self-esteem so you wouldn't try to compete for your parents' favour as well.

"Considering the contempt you hold against him and the way you are today, I'm assuming I'm correct, right?"

He was unable to formulate a response. All he could do was stare at her while his mind was a storm of absolute chaos. Nothing made sense, but everything was unimportant to him at the moment. Here and now, all he could actually do was bore into Hermione's amber-brown eyes.

And in them, the only thing he found was understanding.

Heaving a soft but shuddering breath, he nodded at her. She returned the gesture, but said nothing more. Luckily for him, his phone rang, which kept John from saying anything more on the subject.

Pulling it from his pocket, he brought it to his ear. " _Sherlock Holmes_." He listened patiently as Lestrade relayed his message. " _Of course. How could I refuse?_ " Standing, he ended the call, set his violin down, and glanced between both of his flatmates. " _Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?_ "*

"I'm going to pass. I'm meeting Molly for lunch later," Hermione said.

"I'll come, if you want me to," John said.

He picked up his coat. "Come on then. Crime waits for noone."

* * *

His strides were quick as he entered Barts and headed for the lab. Swiftly, he sauntered towards the lifts. There, he pressed the button insistently until the doors opened. When they did, he faltered at the person exiting.

"Sherlock!" Hermione's smile was wide and warm. It made his abdomen clench. "What are you doing here?"

Lifting his arm, he showed her the evidence bag with the shoes and quickly explained what'd happened after he'd gone to Scotland Yard to see Lestrade. "I'm headed to the lab to examine these."

"Would you mind terribly if I joined you?" she asked.

 _Not at all_. He shrugged. "I suppose."

The brunette beamed and stepped aside so he could join her in the lift. He did so and pressed the button for the floor where the labs was. When the doors closed, Hermione turned to him.

"Where's John?"

"Getting coffee."

"For himself or for you?"

"Me."

She whistled long and low. " _Wow_."

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm just surprised that you admitted that so readily."

"And that surprises you? Why?"

"It just does." Her gaze met his. "So about these shoes, what do you think the bomber wants you to find?"

"Not to shock you or anything—" She rolled her eyes and he smirked. "—but I don't know. At least, not _yet_."

The lift doors opened once they reached their desired floor, and he led the way to the lab. There, he moved to the window where the light was best for his examination.

"Would you like any help?" Hermione asked.

He glanced at her, finding her almost shaking with curiosity and excitement. "I don't need it, however, you can examine the shoes when I'm finished in case I missed something, which is unlikely, but you can do so nonetheless."

Hermione grinned despite his rather terse response, and moved beside him. She slid the box of latex gloves towards him, and he took a pair. Slipping them on, he waited for her to do the same before removing the shoes from the bag to begin his inspection.

Carefully, he picked up the trainers and examined them. He turned them in his grasp, inspecting them from every angle possible. Scrutinising, he looked at the laces and then turned the shoes over to see the treads. With a scoopula, he dug some dried mud from the treads and scraped it on the edge of a glass petri dish.

He set the dish down then the scoopula before the shoes. Moving aside, he gestured for Hermione to go ahead with her examination before moving to the microscope. Just as he sat down on the stool before the instrument, John entered the lab with his coffee.

"Hi John," Hermione called from her place at the window.

The doctor's brows furrowed. "Hermione? What are you doing here?"

"I ran into Sherlock after I finished my lunch with Molly."

"What are you doing with the trainers? Did Sherlock already fill you in?"

"Yes I did," he interjected. "She's examining the shoes now that I've finished with them."

"Oh, well, what have you found so far?"

"Nothing so far, but I'm analysing the mud from the treads," he said, not looking up from his microscope. "Do you have my coffee?"

John sighed and was at his side a moment later. He absentmindedly grabbed his coffee from his flatmate, took a sip, and then set it aside.

" _So who d'you suppose it was?_ " John asked.*

In his jacket, his phone rang, but he ignored it. " _Hmm?_ "*

" _The woman on the phone. The_ crying _woman_."*

" _Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just_ _a_ _hostage. No lead there._ "*

His flatmate growled lowly. " _For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads_."*

Looking up, he glanced at the screen of the scanner, ascertained it was still searching for make-up of the mud, and returned to his microscope. " _You're not going to be of much use to her_."*

"A-Aren't they even _trying_ to trace the call?"

"It wouldn't do them or her any good." Hermione was at his elbow then, setting the trainers atop the evidence bag. "From what Sherlock's told me, the bomber is too smart that. Far too smart." Once again, his phone rang, and like before, he ignored it. "Are you going to get that?"

He still didn't look from the microscope. "Get what?"

"Your phone. You've got two text messages."

"They're not important."

"Your brother?"

"Your deductions?"

"You wouldn't ignore a text if were anyone else."

Pulling away from the microscope, he pulled his phone from his jacket and tossed it to John. The doctor nearly fell over trying to catch it, but after he did, John glared at him.

"See what my brother wants." He returned to examining the mud sample.

"...your brother wants to know how the West case is coming along."

"Is this about the missile plans?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," he answered tersely. To John, "Delete all the texts."

"What? Why? Don't you think you should look into the case? Your brother did say it was a matter of national importance."

" _Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?_ "*

" _Try and remember there's_ _a_ _woman here who might die_."*

" _What for?_ " He looked up. " _This hospital's full of people dying, John. Why don't you go and cry by_ their _bedside and see what good it does them?_ "*

John gaped at him for a moment before turning to Hermione, who was staring at the floor. "Did you hear him?"

"I did," she said, raising her head. "But he's right."

"He's what?"

"I'm what?"

The brunette raked a hand through her mane of curls. "Sherlock's right. If you really want to save that woman, John, then you need to help Sherlock solve this case." He watched her eyes grow solemn. "The bomber is the one in control here. He's playing a game. You play, follow his rules, and win. Then you'll save his hostages. However, the bomber can change his mind at a moment's notice. Even if you solve his puzzles, if the hostage doesn't follow the bomber's rules, then they die.

"You can't save everyone, John. You, as a doctor, should know that better than any of us," she said.

Beeping from his computer stole their attention. Across the screen, the words "SEARCH COMPLETE" flashed just as the door to the lab opened. Molly poked her head through the opening, a smile on her face.

"Oh! I didn't know you stayed, Hermione," the registrar said, moving further into the room.

Almost immediately, Hermione's eyes brightened and she smiled at the other brunette. "I ran into Sherlock and decided to tag along."

"Another case I take it?" Molly asked him, lowering her gaze slightly before looking at him. She fidgeted a bit, but didn't move away from him. He merely nodded sharply in response.

The lab doors opened again and a man in his thirties entered. He narrowed his eyes as he examined this man. There was something... _off_ about him. Never mind his apparel or the way Molly flushed when the man smiled at her, but it was something else. When the man set his sights on Hermione, the hair on the back of his neck stood.

 _There it is_.

It was subtle and short, the look the man had cast at Hermione, but he caught it. That look, however brief, was one of unmistakable intrigue, but this intrigue was unlike he had ever seen. No—that look had been dark and tinged with _greed_.

Every muscle in his body tensed as this man, now playing assuming a docile but awkward persona, shuffled into the room. " _Oh, sorry. I didn't…_ "*

Molly beamed widely at the man. " _Jim! Hi!_ _Come in, come in!_ " Jim moved to her side. " _Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes!_ " The registrar then turned to John, and said, almost apologetically, " _And, uh...sorry_."*

John's smile was just a little tight. " _John Watson. Hi._ "*

" _Hi_ ," Jim said, before setting his sights once again on Hermione. "Hi Hermione. I thought you were heading home?"*

"Hi Jim," the brunette greeted back, distant but cordial. "I was, but I decided to tag along with Sherlock when I bumped into to him at the lifts."

Jim gave her a soft smile, his eyes blank but somehow glinting, before turning his gaze on him. " _So_ you're _Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you._ " The man stepped closer towards him, forcing John to step back." _You on one of your cases?_ "*

" _Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance._ "*

They both laughed, but he could see that it was fake on Jim's part. He scrutinised Jim's appearance once more before returning to his microscope. "He's using you."

"Sherlock!" Hermione's hiss was so low, he almost didn't catch it.

" _Sorry, what?_ " Molly asked.*

Pulling away from the instrument, he turned to the registrar. " _Nothing_." He turned to Jim and gave the man a false smile. " _Um, hey._ "*

By the looks of it, Jim nearly fawned all over him because of his response. The man returned his greeting, and shuffled backwards, bumping into Hermione. Jim acted swiftly, catching the brunette's arm before she bumped into the cooler behind them. His fingers twitched minutely at the sight of Jim's hands on Hermione, and despite the urge to rip her away from that man's grasp, he remained seated.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Jim said, hands still on the brunette's arms. "Are you okay?"

He mentally applauded Hermione when she craftily moved from the man's grasp by feigning the need to straighten her clothes. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you."

Jim stared at Hermione for another long moment before finally backing away from her. " _Well, I'd better be off_." To Molly, " _I'll see you at The Fox. 'bout six-ish?_ "*

The registrar nodded, her grin warm but small. "I'll see you then."

"I'll see you another time, Hermione." The brunette in question only nodded, before Jim turned to him. " _It was nice to meet you._ "*

 _The feeling is anything but mutual_. "Likewise."

With that, Jim patted Molly's shoulder before departing. It seemed as if they all waited a minute after the man had gone before they all released their breaths. In the blink of an eye, Molly rounded on him.

"What do you mean he's using me?" the registrar asked, or rather, demanded. " _We're together_."*

" _And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you._ "*

" _Two and_ _a_ _half._ "*

"Three. I did tell you to lay off the bangers, yes?"

Molly's cheeks pinked in her anger. "H-He's _not_ using me. What— W-Why would you say such a thing?"

"Because it's more than obvious that he's interested in Hermione. He's using you to get close to her."

Should a pin have fallen, the clatter of it hitting the floor would've rivalled the thundering chimes of church bells. For the first time in a rather long time, he wondered if he really should've said what he did. He turned to Molly, and the sight of the anguish on her face guilted him.

"H-He's what?" Molly's voice was a soft, hoarse croak, and he winced inwardly. _Perhaps I shouldn't have_ — "Did you know?"

He turned, and his heart lurched at the distress etched into Hermione's face. Then, it all clicked together in his mind.

Hermione had _known_ of Jim's attentions, and yet, she'd said nothing. She had remained silent, and had stood aside as Molly fawned over a man that used her. The question was, why did she not say anything to Molly if the registrar was _supposedly_ her friend?

After a rather tense moment of silence, Hermione finally spoke. "I knew," she said, her voice raspy, and repeated, "I knew."

Molly flinched. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you're my friend." Hermione shook her head. "I know I should have said something. I have no excuse as to why I didn't. When I found out about Jim's real interest, I planned on talking to you about it, but then you told me that the two of you were dating and I hesitated."

"You should have told me anyway," the registrar said, just a tad loudly.

"I know. I know, but I—I _couldn't_."

"Why? I thought you said I was your friend! Friends don't hurt other friends."

"But I would've hurt you then, Molly, and I just couldn't bear hurting you." The pain in the brunette's voice agonised him. "Not when I've come to value our friendship so much. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to hurt our friendship. But I see now that I've hurt it either way, and for that, I'm sorry."

For a long moment, he glanced between the two women as they simply stared at each other. Moments later, Molly broke their gazes and left the room. Hermione fell onto a stool behind her, and he winced from the melancholy radiating from her.

His hand twitched as the need to comfort her bubbled up inside his chest. A small battle took place inside him as he debated stepping out of _his comfort zone_ to _comfort her_. However, as usual, his hesitance costed him and John went to console Hermione instead.

Swallowing the lump rapidly forming in his throat, he tore his gaze away from the scene and returned to the case. Yet, something tugged at him. If his brain rotted without his work, what happened to the rest of him without Hermione? Inside his chest, a voice whispered.

 _Without her, you will never be alive wholly._

Much to his surprise, he couldn't deny the sentiment.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE** | Just so you all know, I didn't plan for this fic to be super long. I want it to be around 15-18 chapters, 21, including the epilogue, at the most. Even then, I don't know if I will be adding in Season/Series 3, because the time gap between them is two years. I do, however, have the most _adorable_ epilogue planned out, and I'm positive, or delusional, that you all will love it when we get to that point.

I'd like to thank you in advance if you take time to support the story and/or leave some feedback! I appreciate reviews you guys leave!

 _Thanks for reading!_


	8. THE DETECTIVE'S ENDGAME

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE DETECTIVE'S ENDGAME

* * *

A heavy sigh fell from his lips as he dropped into his armchair. Across from him, Hermione was reading, curled up in John's armchair with her feet once again clad in those ghastly pink and black socks. She looked up from her book to give him a warm, if not small, smile, which soothed his frayed nerves more than he cared to admit, then returned to her reading.

John was in the kitchen, searching for something to eat, and muttering to himself. If he wasn't so tired, he would have found the sight amusing. Of course, he would never reveal his tiredness, especially on a case, but now that he'd solved the murder of Carl Powers and subsequently phoned Lestrade to save the hostage, he had a small reprieve until the bomber sent him the next message.

The blaring ring of his phone caught his attention. Fishing it out of his pocket, his brows furrowed at the sight of the caller.

He answered the call with some hesitancy. "Molly?"

"Oh! Hi, Sherlock. Um," She paused, and he drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. "I was, uh, wondering if I could, you know, speak to Hermione. I tried phoning the landline, but apparently it's busy. And since, you know, Hermione doesn't have a phone, and since she lives with you and, um, John—it is John, right?—I figured that giving you a ring was the next best thing."

Without answering the registrar, he stood and held his mobile out to Hermione. The brunette looked up from her book, her eyes glinting with obvious inquiry, and he waved his phone before her.

"Molly," was all he said and the brunette slowly took the device from him.

"Hello?" Her voice was soft but strong. "Molly?"

Plopping back into his chair, he observed the brunette as she spoke to the registrar. Throughout the conversation, her face and eyes remained blank and guarded.

It was odd, seeing her face so closed off, so _cold_. Most of his memories of her consisted of her jubilant smiles and laughter, or her pink-stained cheeks when she was angry or passionate. Every visage he remembered of fifteen-year-old Hermione was one of life, of the fire and vitality that seemed to radiate from her as brilliantly as light. The expression on her face now was so unlike her, his stomach knotted sharply at the sight of it.

Then, much to his relief, her eyes softened and her lips curled upward ever so slightly. His heart contracted under his sternum when her smile faded, but her gaze remained soft. At the sight, he released a long but quiet exhale as he listened in to Hermione's side of the conversation.

"I'm sorry as well, Molly," she said. "It was wrong of me to not tell you about Jim, and I should've told you as soon as I found out." There was a pause for Molly's reply that lasted long moment. Thankfully, whatever the registrar's reply was, it brought back the smile to Hermione's face. "Well, I don't have much to do around here and I'm sure John and Sherlock don't need my help for this case, so yeah, I'm up for it." Yet another lengthy pause for Molly's response. "Then, I'll meet you at your house. See you tomorrow."

Not half a minute later, the brunette hung up and reached across the space separating the armchairs to return his phone. He took it from her as she murmured her thanks and shoved it back into his pocket. Hermione gave him another one of her smiles that made his heart murmur in his chest before returning to her book.

He waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. After a full minute of waiting for her to explain what her conversation with Moll had been about, and not receiving an answer, he said, "What did Molly want?"

Hermione, once again, looked up from her reading to him. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Molly." He propped his elbow up onto the arm of his seat and rested his cheek on a closed fist. "I assumed that the two of you have reconciled, yes?"

Her face was absolutely luminous then. "Yeah, we have," she said. "We've decided to have a "girl's day" tomorrow since Molly has the day off."

"I'm glad that you guys have made up," John said as he entered the room. "What did you and Molly agree to do tomorrow?"

"Molly's mum pre-booked a treatment package at some really high-end day spa as a birthday present. They _were_ going to go the spa together, but apparently, Molly spoke to her mum about it, and well, now _we_ ' _re_ going together," she said. "The visit to the spa is set for tomorrow evening, and the package include massages, manicure, pedicures, et cetera."

"You won't be here tomorrow then?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Or most of the day after either. I'm going to stay at Molly's after the spa, and we're going shopping the next day."

The doctor gave her a smile. "I hope you two have a good time."

"You can't go," he said.

Both of his flatmates turned to him. John gave him glare while Hermione merely furrowed her brows in evident confusion. He ignored his flatmate and kept his gaze on the brunette.

"Why not?" she asked.

He really didn't have a valid reason for her not to go other than the fact that _he_ _didn't want_ her to go, but he would never tell her that. "We're in the middle of a case."

Hermione shook her head, but gave him _yet another_ one of her brilliant smiles. "I'm sure you and John will manage without me."

With that, she stood and sauntered out of the room, leaving him to frown at the space she had vacated.

* * *

Hermione's absence was glaringly obvious; the flat was deafeningly silent. Usually, Hermione tried to organise the mess that was the kitchen table without moving his lab equipment too much, as she knew he valued his experiments, or she would clean the lounge since it too was always in some state of disarray. When she wasn't try to clean, she was reading, and while she was, she was silent most of the time; he'd grown used to her occasional hums and scoffs.

She'd left not twelve hours ago and the lack of her presence set him on edge. He had three patches on his arm, and yet he was still agitated.

In the nine hours she'd been gone, he'd already retreated to his room a dozen times to make sure her things were still there. The sight of her things in the wardrobe and dresser soothed the ache in his chest, but not by much. He knew that she would be back, believed she would, but for some reason, his heart wasn't as quite believing.

Shaking his head, he stared at the ceiling. He had solved the bomber's second case and had saved the second hostage, now all that was left for him to do was wait—for the next message and for Hermione to come back.

* * *

The line went dead, and he dropped the phone from his ear. Beside him, John and Lestrade were silent as well. Neither of them spoke when he stood or when he stalked out of Lestrade's office.

He shrugged on his coat as he headed to the lifts. As soon as the doors opened, John was at his side, but they didn't speak. In fact, the entire journey back to the flat was nearly quiet—John had to speak to give the cabbie the directions to the flat.

When the cab pulled up to 221, he swiftly exited the vehicle and stormed inside his home. He tore his coat off him and flung it onto the couch with more force than needed.

No matter what he said to John, no matter how much he fought to keep it from showing, he _did_ care about those hostages, even if his care was the size of a mustard seed. How could he not care? They were people—living, breathing people. Not a single one of them had asked to be put in the situation they were in, and yet, the bomber had ripped them out of their lives, strapped explosives to their torsos, and set up a game for him to play.

And he was playing. He had willingly put himself in a position where he wasn't the one in control. The bomber sent him a message and a picture, and he went out to solve the puzzles. So far, he'd been winning; he'd solved two of the puzzles and saved two hostages. This time, _this time_ , however, he'd lost.

 _The bomber is the one in control here. He's playing_ _a_ _game. You play, follow his rules, and win. Then you'll save his hostages. However, the bomber can change his mind at_ _a_ _moment's notice. Even if you solve his puzzles, if the hostage doesn't follow the bomber's rules, then they die._

"Sherlock?"

The sound of her voice released some of the tension in his shoulders. He turned to find Hermione standing in the doorway with a mug cupped between her hands. Steam slithered and curled into the air, and from the scent that wafted towards him, he surmised that she was drinking hot chocolate.

"Are you all right?" she asked, tentatively.

He rubbed forehead as he shook head. "No. I'm not all right."

"What happened?" She was at his side in the next instant. "Is it about the case?" At his nod, she went on, "You lost didn't you."

"Yes." His voice was reminiscent of a frog's croak. "I lost."

For some reason, shame didn't ravage him as it normally would have whenever he admitted that he'd failed. Maybe it was the warmth underneath the sadness, or perhaps it was the lack of recrimination, in her gaze that coaxed him to acknowledge his failure. He was unsure what it was, but it was something that made him comfortable around her.

She didn't respond to him, but took a hand in hers instead. Then, she placed the mug of hot chocolate in his grasp and gave him a soft smile. With a squeeze of his free hand, she stepped away from him.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. At his nod, she went on, "I'll make some sandwiches then."

To him, the easy understanding she gave him, rather than make him talk about it, was more cathartic than anything else. She knew him better than John did sometimes, and it never failed to amaze him. Moreover, now that she was back, the ache under his sternum went away.

* * *

" _The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people is said to have been caused by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utilities company_ …" the news reporter said.*

" _He_ gets about," John muttered.

He shook his head. "I lost that round despite the fact that I did solve the case." Picking up the remote, he muted the volume before lowering his hand again. "The old lady died because she started to describe the bomber. He'd put himself in the firing line."

John turned to him. "What?"

"He, the bomber, must—no— _needs_ to stay above it all. He's a puppet master. _The_ puppet master. He orchestrates the show and no-one every sees him."

"You mean like the Connie Prince murder? He orchestrated that? So people contact him and he fixes their problems? Like a repairman? Or a crime boss?"

Despite how inappropriate it was, the bomber was actually quite brilliant—perhaps more than him. "Brilliant," he breathed.

Disbelief clouded John's face, but he paid the doctor no mind. The Connie Prince murder story appeared on the news then, and they watched as police officers escorted Raoul de Santos out of Kenny Prince's house. He turned away from the telly to stare at the pink phone.

"He's taking his time," he murmured, more to himself than anything else.

John cleared his throat. "Find anything on the Carl Powers case?"

"No, I haven't. All living classmates check out. No connection whatsoever."

"The killer could've been older than Carl?"

"Yes, the thought had occurred to me."

A beat of silence passed between them.

"Why's the bomber doing all this then? Why is he playing this game with you? Does he wants to be caught?" John asked.

The corners of his lips twitched and he had to press his fingers against his mouth to keep the grin off his face. "No. He wants to be distracted."

Suddenly, John laughed, but there was no mirth in it. The doctor stood then and headed to the kitchen. "Well, I hope the two of you will be very happy together."

His brows furrowed. "What?"

John turned around and pressed his hands against the back of his armchair. "Lives at stake, Sherlock! Human lives!Do you even care about that at all?"

For some reason, that caused him to snap. "And what good will that do? Will it help save them?"

"No," John replied tersely. "It won't."

Hermione entered the room then, and he wasn't sure if he was grateful for her presence or not. Of course, his annoyance at John receded a bit, but didn't go away. She glanced between the two of them but didn't say anything. However, she did linger in the doorway, obviously unsure about interrupting their conversation.

"Then I won't make that mistake," he said, the lie heavy on his tongue.

His words visibly irritated John. "And that's easy for you, is it?"

"Very easy." Another lie. "Does that surprise you?"

"Honestly, it doesn't." The doctor's smile was bitter.

They stared at one another, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione fidget just slightly. After a moment, he spoke once more. " _I've disappointed you_."*

That bitter smile shifted into one filled with anger. " _That's good. That's a good deduction, yeah_."*

"Don't _make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them_."*

John turned around to Hermione. The brunette looked surprised for a moment until her shock turned into unease. "What about you?" the doctor asked.

"What?" she replied, flustered.

"Has Sherlock disappointed you as well?"

Honestly, the question surprised him as much as it evidently did to Hermione. She shifted her eyes from John to his as she bit her bottom lip. After a moment, she cleared her throat.

"I'm not disappointed," she said softly.

"What?"

"Pardon?"

Both he and John looked at one another before turning back to the brunette. She bit her lip once more before she spoke again. "I'm not disappointed," she said. "I know you believe that caring is a weakness, but that's a matter of opinion. While you may not be a hero, Sherlock, I still believe in you."

With that, she picked up a book from the table against the wall and left the room, leaving both him and John speechless behind her.

* * *

After questioning Miss Wenceslas, he and John left Scotland Yard with Lestrade tagging along. His flatmate had invited the DI along as they went to get something to eat. While he really wanted to solve the case with Andrew West, he was a bit peckish.

They approached Speedy's just as Hermione stepped out of 221. When she caught sight of them, her lips curled into a bright smile.

"I didn't expect to see you two until this evening," she said as they met in front of the cafe.

"John was hungry," he said blandly.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lestrade freeze and stare at Hermione. He stiffened immediately and watched the emotions run across the DI's face. First was shock, then confusion, before both of them gave way to determination, which made the alarms in his mind sound. Lestrade smiled when Hermione turned to him.

"Oh, hello," she said, extending her hand. "Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you."

"Greg Lestrade," the DI said, shaking the proffered hand. "It's nice to meet you as well, Hermione."

John ushered them inside then with him lingering at the end of the pack. Inside the cafe, Hermione began to explain how she came to meet them, and Lestrade, in turn, offered her his help in trying to find her attacker. That was when he stepped in.

"I have it covered," he said tersely as they sat at a table. As was usual, he took the seat beside Hermione before John and Lestrade could do so.

"Oh well, if you have it covered then why haven't you found the man already?" the DI asked.

Annoyance flared up inside him, but he fought to keep his face impassive. "I'm waiting for information from my contacts."

Lestrade arched his brow. "Really?" Without waiting for him to respond, the DI turned to Hermione. "I'm sure everything will work out soon."

"Hopefully," she replied.

There was a glint in Lestrade's eye that he couldn't quite decipher, but it made a stone settle in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

The lead in his abdomen didn't go away. He shifted in his chair and wrapped his coat tighter around him since the windows had yet to be replace. Beside him, on the arm of his chair, was the pink phone. John was typing away on his laptop behind him while Hermione was sweeping up the last of the debris from the explosion.

Turning his attention back to the TV, he narrowed his eyes at the show. " _No,_ _no_ _,_ no _! Of course he's not the boy's father!_ " He gestured wildly. " _Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!_ " With a sigh, he folded his arms across his chest. Hermione laughed softly and he turned to her. "And just _what_ do you find amusing?"*

"You," she said. "I never thought I'd see the day when you would watch crap telly."

"A dangerous endeavour," John remarked. "We probably shouldn't have gotten him into it."

Hermione chuckled. "There's no going back now."

"Did you give Mycroft the memory stick?" his flatmate asked.

"Yes," he said, despite the fact that the memory stick sat in his pocket with Hermione's phone. "He was positively ecstatic. _Threatened me with a knighthood. Again._ "*

"Again?" Hermione appeared before him. "You're kidding."

He wasn't sure if he should be offended or not. "Sadly, no."

The sharp _slam_ of John shutting his laptop caught their attention. "Well, I'm off to Sarah's. I will see you two later."

"Or tomorrow?" The doctor flushed at Hermione's words. "Oh, there's no need for you to get embarrassed John."

His flatmate cleared his throat. "Um, well, uh, we need milk."

"I'll get it," he said.

" _Really?_ "*

"You'll what?"

Without looking at his flatmates, he continued. "I will get the milk."

"We also need some beans," John added.

He waved his hand impatiently. "Yes, yes."

There was a sigh before footsteps sounded. In the next instant, Hermione was standing in front of him, blocking his view of the TV. She had her hands on her hips.

"What?" he asked.

Her gaze narrowed. "You liar."

"Pardon?"

"You're not going to get the shopping, are you?"

For a moment, he contemplated lying again, but looking at her again, he deleted that thought. "No. I'm not getting the shopping."

Hermione dropped her hands from her hips. "I'll go then." She moved to grab her coat from the back of John's armchair and shrugged it on. "I won't be gone long. If you're hungry, there's bread and bacon for sandwiches."

"How did you know I was lying?" he inquired, just before left the room.

Turning, she gave him a little smile. "You're lip twitches, just a little bit, before you lie. Oh! And give your brother the memory stick." With that, she walked out of the room.

He sat there baulking at the place she had stood for a moment before shaking his head. After hearing the front door shut, he pulled his laptop out from beneath the folds of his coat. Quickly, he placed it on his lap and opened the lid.

Staring at the message box on his website, he waited a moment before he began typing. He sent the message and shut his laptop before standing. Swiftly, he scribbled a message on a sticky note for Hermione about returning the memory stick to Mycroft and stuck it to TV, which he left on—of course, in order to find his note, she would have to turn off the TV.

* * *

Slowly, he pulled open the door to the pool. He entered, hands clasping the memory stick behind his back. Looking around, he scrutinised his surroundings, looking for a clue as to where the bomber was hiding. With a turn, he raised his hand, holding the memory stick up into the air and looking at it thoughtfully.

"This was what you wanted, wasn't it?" he said loudly, turning the memory stick around as if examining it. "You left clues like a trail of breadcrumbs, knowing that I would follow. Knowing that I would play your game. Just to keep me from finding this."

The sound of the water splashing against the sides of the pool was the response he received. He turned around slowly, eyes darting around for a sign of where the bomber was hiding. Somewhere behind him, a door opened, causing him to look over his shoulder.

A door in the right-hand corner opened. The light from the hallway behind shadowed the figure emerging. When the door closed behind the figure, surprised raced up his spine.

There, standing across the room, was Jim— _Molly's_ Jim. The man in question, clad in a finely tailored black suit with a matching tie, began to applaud.

"Well done, Sherlock," Jim said, no longer applauding as he slowly strolled along the deep end of the pool. "I didn't think you would figure it out." The man snorted, slipping his hands into his pocket. "But then again, you _are_ Sherlock Holmes, so maybe I set my expectations too low."

Ever so slowly, he lowered his arm and turned to face Jim, but he didn't speak.

Jim went on despite his lack of response. "It took you long enough, though." The man chuckled. "And yet, you still managed to solve my little puzzles, so really, I guess I'll congratulate you for getting this far." Pausing, Jim turned to him. "However, I'm going to have to ask that you stop pretending that you don't have a pistol in your pocket."

For a moment, he contemplated feigning ignorance of the firearm, but decided against it. He shrugged and pulled the pistol from his back pocket, but didn't aim it at the man. Instead, he idilly twirled it around his finger by the trigger guard despite how dangerous as it was for him to do so.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1?" Jim asked, almost conversationally.

In response, he shook his head and said, "A variant of the SIG Sauer P226."

"I see." Jim nodded his head in a fake sort of understanding. "I don't think I've properly introduced myself." The man stopped again, turned to him, swept an arm out, and bowed. "Jim Moriarty." Straightening, Jim smirked and said in a London accent, "Jim from the hospital was behind it all along." With a smirk, he dropped it. "Were you surprised?"

He stopped twirling the pistol and shrugged. "Not very."

That was a lie, because he was more than surprised. He was absolutely shocked, because the man before him was _the_ Moriarty. The man who paid the cabbie from "A Study in Pink" for all those people he'd killed; who killed Carl Powers all those years ago; who snatched all the hostages from their lives to become pawns in his game.

More than anything else, Moriarty had been close enough to _touch_ Hermione, _had touched_ her, and had been close enough to endanger her. And yet, he hadn't recognised the potential threat the man had been until now. He had put her life at risk without even knowing it.

However, now that he knew what Moriarty looked like, knew what he was capable of, he wouldn't make the same mistake again. He would die before he let this man touch her again let alone harm her. If he failed and Moriarty managed to endanger her, it would be worse than his most horrific nightmare.

Moriarty feigned being put out. "Oh, come now. I'm sure it was a complete shock."

"It was," he conceded insincerely.

"Liar."

"Obviously."

Moriarty finally reached end of the walkway along the deep end, and turned to face him. "Aren't you curious, Sherlock?" When he simply arched his brow in response, Moriarty went on. "You know, the fifth pip. The last hostage." The man's lips twisted into a malicious smirk. "Aren't you just vying to know how this game will end?"

"You already know the answer to that question," he replied.

"Of course, of course." Moriarty started his slow stroll again. This time, it was towards him. "But out of curiosity, who do you think will win? You, _the_ Sherlock Holmes, or me, the _mastermind_ behind all of this fun?"

"Does it really matter?"

"Why of course it does!" There was an almost indignant expression on Moriarty's face. "Why would I go through all this trouble of cutting those people loose, setting up these problems, or even letting go of thirty million quid if there wasn't going to be a winner?"

He smirked this time. "Because you were bored. Why else?"

"Now you see, Sherlock—" Moriarty waved his finger at him. "—that's where you're wrong."

"No I'm not."

"Okay, so maybe you're a little right."

"Naturally."

"Nevertheless—" The man before him stopped halfway down the walkway. "—there will only be one winner today, Sherlock, and I can assure you that it will be me."

"And yet I'm the one with the gun." For emphasis, he aimed the firearm at Moriarty's head. "All I have to do is pull the trigger and... _boom_."

"Oh, you think you're so clever, don't you?" Moriarty didn't wait for him to respond. "Really, using my words against me is so _cliche_ , so unoriginal. You disappoint me, Sherlock, because you seem to have forgotten that _I_ have the upperhand here. You still have yet to save the fifth hostage."

"And you seem to have forgotten that I have what you want." He held up the memory stick with his free hand. "The missile plans. We played this game for this. Fifteen people have died."

"That's what they _do_!" Moriarty's face contorted into a fierce snarl. "People die. Boo-hoo. Would you like me to drain the pool so you can fill it with your tears?"

"Now you disappoint me, Moriarty." He shook his head, mockingly. "But then again, I shouldn't have expected my from a _consulting_ _criminal_ —brilliant, by the way."

By this time, the man had returned to his calm, aloof persona. "Thank you. Sadly, no-one's ever managed to get to me, and of course, no-one ever will." Moriarty waved a finger at him again. "You came remarkably close though, so I guess I'm a little more than impressed."

"But that's not why we're here, is it?" He kept the firearm on the man before him while he nonchalantly tossed the memory stick about. "You wouldn't have gone through all this trouble of getting me to play your game."

"Very good, Sherlock," Moriarty said, a cold grin on his lips. "As usual, you're right. Normally, I wouldn't have gone through some trouble. I mean, imagine at how much more naughty I could've been I had not spent so much time trying to get you here?"

His brow arched. "Here being?"

"The endgame, of course. Just you and me to settle the score." The man pulled out his hands from his pockets to smooth his suit jacket and hair. He smirked once more before he said, "But I have a surprise for you first."

Strolling towards the door no more than a handful of metres away from him, Moriarty pushed it open and held it. "Why don't you join us, dear?" the man asked.

There was no response, but footsteps sounded. His mouth dried and heart seized when Hermione entered the room, clad in a faux fur-trimmed, brown full-length coat. As she Moriarty to lead her towards him, she didn't meet his eyes.

"Surprise!" Moriarty grinned widely at him, stopping with Hermione an arm's length away from him. "Do you like the coat?" Again, the man didn't wait for a response. "Of course, my dear little Hermione wouldn't accept my gift. Modest, isn't she? But after a little _persuasion_ , she finally relented."

Hermione shifted her head away from Moriarty when the man in question brushed some hair that obscured her face behind her ear. His gaze locked on to the bruise across her cheekbone, and an inferno sparked and raged within him. However, the fire couldn't melt the ice spearing through his chest.

He hadn't wanted this, had vowed to make sure that it would never happen. Not minutes before, he'd sworn that he would die before ever letting this man touch her again let alone harm her. Again, he'd failed, because there Hermione stood, cheek bruised and hand in Moriarty's grasp.

Not only had he failed again, but _he had failed her_.

With a swipe of his thumb, he removed the safety of the pistol and aim it at Moriarty's head, right in the middle of his forehead. The grip he had on the firearm was so tight that his knuckles blanched. Other than the vise he had on the pistol, he viciously squashed his emotions to keep them from appearing in his body language. His body remain poised and his face was a careful, blank mask.

"Release her," he said. "Now, Moriarty."

The man inquestion chuckled. "What are you going to do if I don't? Shoot me?"

"You already know the answer to that."

"I do, do I?"

"Don't be coy."

"Oh, but it really is so much fun."

His gaze darted between Moriarty and Hermione. The brunette still wouldn't look at him, but he noted that her hands clutched her coat in a clenched fists that were quivering ever so slightly. Despite her impassiveness, she was afraid.

"Why is she here? Why not chose John?" he asked, genuinely, albeit reluctantly, curious.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock." The man shook his head condescendingly. "Why are you asking me a question you already know the answer to?"

For a long time, he was silent, but his blood roared in his ears. There was no possible way Moriarty could have known the significance of Hermione in his life. She was his best kept secret—not out of shame, of course, but pure selfishness on his part. He hadn't wanted to share his memories of her, despite that fact that she had abandoned him, with anyone.

"And how do you know that I knew the answer?" he inquired, trying to force away the panic that was threatening to devour him.

Moriarty shrugged. "I don't, but I was hoping you'd enlighten me." The man tugged on the sash of Hermione's coat, causing the sides to part. "If you don't, well, I'm sure you know what'll happen."

Beneath the coat, Hermione wore a vest of wires and explosives. His heart dropped down into his stomach as bile filled his throat and mouth.

 _Bastard!_

He returned his gaze to Moriarty. "And if I don't know?"

"You know the answer to that." The man stepped forward, invading his personal space. "But you know what really confuses me? Why would you let little Hermione here into your home when you don't even know her? Why would you pose as _her husband_ —" Moriarty's face contorted in distaste. "—when she's a stranger to you? Why would you go against a Chinese assassin to rescue some woman that showed up on your doorstep bleeding and barely conscious? Because if there's anything that I know about you, Sherlock Holmes, and I know _quite_ a lot about you, I know that you don't care about people. At all."

He didn't reply, but merely stared down the man before him. After long time, Moriarty stepped back so he was beside Hermione once more.

"So the question is, Sherlock—" Moriarty snapped his fingers. "—what does Hermione Granger mean to you?"

A red dot appeared on Hermione chest, right where the explosive was, and stayed there. The hand at his side clenched and despite his attempts to reign in his emotions, he couldn't do it. His jaw locked and he glowered at the man before him.

Said man looked over his hands as if inspecting them, and without looking at him, said, "I'll give you time to think about your answer." Moriarty smirked but still didn't look up. "But before we play to determine a winner, I'll let you ask me the question you're _vying_ to ask."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Here—" He shoved the memory stick at him. "—if this is what you want, take it."

Moriarty tossed his head back and let out a raucous bark of laughter. "Did you really think that I wanted the missile plans?" The man snorted but plucked the memory stick from his grasp. "I didn't want this." To make his point, Moriarty threw the device into the pool. "No. You see, Sherlock, what I really want is to see you burn."

"You mean to kill me," he said bluntly. Not an ounce of the fear ripping through his bloodstream was for him, but all of it was for Hermione. "Why play this game if you wanted me dead?"

"Oops, I only said you could ask one question, though I guess I could indulge you since I loved playing our little game." Moriarty leaned forward, almost as if he were going to tell him a secret. "Of course, I want you dead, and one day, I will kill you. But not today. No. Today, I'll just give you a warning: stop sticking your nose in my business." His lips curled into a sneer. "But more than that, I want you to _burn_ , Sherlock. I want your _heart_ to burn." The man straightened and twirled one of Hermione's curls between his fingers. "And I think I've just found out where your heart is." Releasing the strand, he went on, "It's time for you to answer my question."

He cocked the pistol. "By all means, ask away."

"What is Hermione Granger to you?" Moriarty asked. "Remember now, I'll give you some time to think about it, but when the time's up... _boom_." The man turned to Hermione. "If you'd be so kind, my dear."

"...ten."

Her voice was hoarse, strangled, and it agonised him. Never had he heard her sound so frightened.

"...nine."

It was completely unlike Hermione, _his_ Hermione, who was as brilliant and luminous as the stars in the night or the sun in morning. She was a flame—fiery, passionate, fierce, warm, and life.

"...eight."

No—this Hermione was so unlike _his_. This Hermione was despondent and trapped in a position with no way out.

"...seven."

And right now, he was her only hope.

"...six."

But to save her, he would have to lie.

"...five."

He would have to hurt her to keep her safe, because if Moriarty knew just how important she was to him then he would do just as promised—he would burn his heart.

"...four."

 _She_ was his heart. She was _his everything_.

"...three."

And he realised then and there, that he still loved her.

"...two."

But she would never be able to know.

"...on—"

"—She's nothing to me," he said, lowering the gun. The lie tasted worse than bile and it pierced his heart with such a vengeance that it was a miracle in itself that he hadn't winced from the pain spanning across his chest.

By then, Hermione had finally looked up at him, her eyes wide and cheek still bruised. Her gaze met his, but there were cloudy with emotions he couldn't identify. The sight shoved the spear in his heart deeper.

"She will never meaning anything to me," he continued, keeping his eyes on her. "She's just a case that I plan to solve and discard. When her memory returns, I will cut off all ties with her and I will never see her again." He turned to Moriarty who looked surprised yet smug by his answer. "Hermione Granger is no-one to me, but I won't allow you to harm her."

"Oh, I wasn't planning to," Moriarty said, smirking. "At least, not anymore." With another snap of his fingers, the red dot on Hermione's chest disappeared. "Come now, don't look so sad, my dear," the man said to her. Hermione's had her head bowed, and her shoulders shook. "You still have me, of course."

"Let her go," he said, turning the firearm back to Moriarty. "I answered your question. You have your answer. You win."

The man turned back to him. "But you're still alive, Sherlock. Technically, I haven't won yet."

He dropped his arm and lowered the pistol. "Then kill me now."

"I'm not going to kill you now, Sherlock." Moriarty shook his head. "No. Not yet, but I will soon. First, I have some things to do, and when I'm done, I'll kill you. Enjoy your life while you have it."

With that, Moriarty walked around Hermione and through the door she'd entered. He waited until the door swung shut before hurrying over to the brunette.

His hand were swift, almost frantic, as he ripped the vest off of her. Throwing it away from her, he stepped back to examine her.

"Are you all right?" he asked, softly.

It took her a long time to respond, and while he waited, he watched her keep her head bowed and shoulders shake. Finally, after an excruciating minute, she looked up at him and grinned.

"Liar," she said. It was so soft that he almost hadn't caught it.

"And how would you know?" he asked, just as quietly but somehow disgruntled that she'd caught his lie when he hadn't wanted her to know.

Her voice was a whisper when she replied, "Your lips twitched. Just a little bit."

Repressing a grin, he grasped her wrist and hurriedly ushered her out of room. He wouldn't risk the chance of Moriarty changing his mind.

* * *

It was nearly three in the morning, but he was still awake and alert. Hermione was in his room, safe and sound asleep. Mrs. Hudson was also sleeping soundly and safe. The flat was quiet and frigid, but he took comfort in the silence and hardly noticed the cold.

All he could do was stare at the mobile resting on the arm of his chair—it was Hermione's phone.

He'd realised—after listening to Hermione's account of her abduction, which had happened just as she was returning with the shopping and involved an uncalled for punch from her abductors when she wouldn't cooperate—that Hermione wasn't safe with him. It didn't matter if he would die for her. In the end, while the brunette could easily take of herself, he'd still endanger her because of her associating with him, never mind living with him.

The incident at the pool had forced him to acknowledge his feelings for Hermione, and he knew now that he still loved her, had never stopped loving her. Maybe he'd fallen in love with her all over again in the two months of her reappearance in his life. He wasn't certain, but he could no longer deny that she was his heart.

Knowing this prompted him to pick up the phone. With some hesitation, he turned on the device. In order to keep Hermione safe, she needed to go.

When the phone was on, he stared down at the screensaver of her lockscreen. He smiled at the picture of red carnations. It was simple and pleasing to the eye, and sparked a thought in his mind. The smile faded from his face as he shakily typed in four digits: _0795_. His breath stayed in his throat as the phone vibrated.

It was the wrong code.

He deflated then and nearly threw the phone away from him. Instead, he stared at the screen.

 _Had I thought too much into the picture?_

Yes, he'd given her a red carnation for a date all those years ago that summer, but that didn't mean she remembered. After all, it was just a screensaver.

Another thought, however, slipped into his mind, urging him to try again. So he did, and typed the same digits with a slight variation: _0895_.

Again, his breath caught as the screen turned black. A moment later her home screen appeared—the carnations were still her background. And the sight of it changed everything.

She'd _thought_ of him.

Before her attack, she had thought of him. Had kept him in her mind so much that the date of their date was her passcode and an image of red carnations were her background photos. All these years, she'd kept the memory of him close to her, kept him in the palm of her hand. His heart beat wildly in his chest, jubilance rapidly flooding his veins, when the palpitations stuttered.

If she'd remembered him, why hadn't she sought him out?

Many more questions stemmed from that one, but he paid them no mind. For that first question was what he really wanted to know.

 _If she leaves then I would never know._

The thought jarred him as he stared at her mobile. It stirred a war between his head and his heart, because he knew while she would be safer away from him, he needed to know why she hadn't sought him out when she thought of him. Glancing down at the device in his hand, it took him no more than a moment to make his decision.

He turned off the phone and returned it to his pocket.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE** | Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, because this marks the beginning of the second part of the story! We'll move into season/series 2 of SHERLOCK and I have a myriad of twists and turns for all of you. Reviews are very much appreciated guys c:

 _Thanks for reading!_


	9. WHEN TROUBLE ARRIVES

_NOT EDITED._

* * *

CHAPTER NINE

WHEN TROUBLE ARRIVES

* * *

 _2 April 2010_

 _2:37 am_

In the fields of Wiltshire, a manor towered over the landscape. The estate was nothing short of magnificent—its highest point jutted over eighteen metres into the air; there were lush gardens, mazes, and a private lake; the windows glimmered as they reflected the moonlight.

There were no lights on inside the ominous estate—except for one.

A man occupied a study in the western wing of the manor. This man was just as magnificent as his manor—tall and lithe with broad-shoulders, neatly-kept platinum blond hair, and piercing, mercurial eyes. He raked a long-fingered hand through his hair, ruffling it as frustration ravaged him.

Grey eyes flickered from the ledgers to the picture resting atop a corner of his massive oak desk. That same hand reached out and traced the edges of the gilded frame housing the picture. Behind the glass, the woman in the picture smiled at him, brown eyes shining with life and warmth as a breeze caught the riotous curls of her hair.

For nearly two months, he'd searched for this woman, praying, yearning for her safe return. He'd spared no expense searching for her, used all of his resources to find her.

So far, there was no sign of her.

Sighing, he stood and crossed the room to stand before the hearth with the still-roaring fire. The flames cast shadows across him, making the angles of his face seem sharper, crueller. He studiously kept his sight on the fire and away from the system of computers that occupied the north-eastern corner of his study.

Five years ago, he'd managed to revolutionise his small but global community. Now, thousands upon thousands of those like him could enjoy the wonders of mobiles, computers, and televisions without concern. Even his once prejudice family found enjoyment in the wonders of technology.

He, however, didn't find much enjoyment these days—not with _her_ gone.

Another defeated sigh fell from his lips. Frustrated, he tugged at his blond hair again before returning to his work. It was difficult, now more than ever, to focus, especially when he was constantly worrying about her.

Yet, just as he sat down at his desk once more, the computers in the corner of his study roared to life. He was on his feet instantly. Several quick strides later, he was standing before the cluster of monitors, eyes darting over the maps flashing across the screens.

He withdrew a length of hawthorn from the holster on his forearm. Slender fingers grasped the piece of wood until his knuckles blanched. When the computer screens finally ceased flashing, he held his breath as he focused on the final map.

 _HG MOBILE_

 _Status: Active._

 _Last Activated: 21.34, Feb. 5, 2010._

 _Current Location: 221 Baker Street, London, England, United Kingdom._

For a moment, he stood there, motionless. He stared at the computer screen, paid close attention to the blinking, red dot on 221 Baker Street. It was only when the dot disappeared a minute later that he pointed the length of hawthorn at the windows.

Shutting his eyes, he summoned all the memories of her, every wonderful, every agonising thought of her, and muttered one, simple phrase: " _Expecto Patronum_."

He opened his eyes and watched as wisp of silver mist burst forth from the tip of the length of hawthorn. The mist twirled and danced through the air until it formed the shape of a playful otter. Then, the silvery creature darted away from him, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and into the night.

The otter carried a simple message that would shake all the receivers: "I found her."

* * *

SH + HG

* * *

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, he'd fallen asleep. It'd seemed like a few minutes had passed before the sound of quick, sharp knocks against the front door drifted up the stairs and filled his ears. Groaning, he blinked the grogginess away and sat up from his reclining position on the couch.

A soft _thump_ came from his room followed by a moan. His lips twitched slightly, but he repressed a grin as he stood. With a downward glance, he frowned at the wrinkled state of his favourite purple shirt and trousers just as Hermione trudged into the room.

Inside his ribcage, his heartbeat quickened, warmth blooming and branching from within his chest and spreading to the rest of his body. Hermione wasn't particularly attractive this morning. Not with her hair a complete mess, night clothes rumped, or hair stuck to the corner of her lip because she drooled in her sleep. However, she still managed to take his breath away when she gave him a sleepy smile before collapsing into then curling up in his chair.

"G'Morning," she said around a yawn. "What time is it?"

Glancing at the microwave in the kitchen, he saw it was a quarter to ten and relayed this to Hermione. She frowned, eyes somnolent, and wrapped her jumper, which was another one of his, tighter. As for him, he left the room to complete his morning routine and change clothes. However, not ten minutes later and still dressed in yesterday's attire but teeth brushed, he returned to the lounge at the clamour of footsteps coming up the stairs.

Mrs Hudson entered the room first and Lestrade followed. The sight of the DI gave him pause until a man entered the room behind the inspector. His mouth dried and ice speared through his veins.

 _Harry Potter_.

His homeless network had sent him pictures of the man when they had found him two months ago. The man before him hadn't changed much in that time. Round spectacles sat on his nose, the messy fringe of his hair obscuring a rather distinct but odd lighting-shaped scar. The only difference between then and now was the presence of dark, pronounced circles sitting beneath the man's haunted eyes.

Then, the unruly-haired man met his gaze. Green eyes rested on him for no more than a second before darting to something at his side.

A small hand grasped his and he looked down. Hermione was beside him then, not looking at him, but grasping his hand tightly. Her grip matched the tension in her shoulders and on her face as she stared at the newcomer.

He turned back to Potter and he nearly baulked in surprise at what he saw. Agony pulsated from the depths of the man's eyes, which glinted faintly with evident relief and joy. Potter released a strangled, agonised cry of "Hermione" before taking a step forward.

In response, she stepped back.

"What's going on Lestrade?" he asked, voice tight, as he subtly turned his body to shield Hermione.

The DI cleared his throat, abashment scrawled on his face, before he spoke. "Sherlock, Hermione, this is Harry Potter. He's an acquaintance of mine. I met him a few weeks back. You see, he's—" Lestrade floundered. "He's—"

"—I'm Hermione friend," Potter said, keeping his sight on the brunette in question as he said this. "Her best friend actually."

"I-I don't know you," she replied quickly. "But if I did, I-I don't remember you."

The green-eyed man winced. "I know, I know. Greg told me. Retrograde amnesia."

For a long time, there was only silence. He really couldn't say anything. Not when the reality that Hermione might leave him stood before him, masquerading as Harry Potter.

"I'll go get some refreshments." With that, Mrs Hudson scurried out of the room.

The departure of his kind landlady forced the tension in the room to escalate. Stiffly, he motioned for Lestrade and Potter to have a seat while he rearranged the chairs of the table against the wall. He placed the seats before the coffee table and waited for Hermione to sit before he sat too.

More minutes of stifling silence passed before Mrs Hudson returned. She set the tray in her hands down onto the coffee table, fidgeted for a moment when she straightened, and finally left the room. Hermione was the first to reach for the coffee carafe that the landlady had brought and fixed herself a cup.

However, much to everyone's surprise, including him, she handed him the mug after stirring in two spoons of sugar. With a slight incline of his head, he took the mug from her and sipped. He watched her prepare another cup, for herself this time, and returned his gaze to Lestrade and Potter.

"What's going on here, Lestrade?" He wasn't in the mood for dull prattle, so he got straight to the point. "Care to explain?"

The DI fidgeted under his pointed stare as he cleared his throat. "Yes, well." Again, Lestrade cleared his throat. "As you know, I wasn't assigned to the Black Lotus case. Well, Harry came in the day before to file a missing person report, but because he, and Hermione, worked high up in the government and she'd just been attacked, we couldn't have her picture all over the news."

"So what'd you do?" Hermione asked, eyes sparkling with intrigue but still wary.

"We began a search and kept it under wraps," the DI said. "We've been search for ten days now all over the country. Imagine my surprise when I found her hanging around with you!"

He narrowed his gaze. " _I_ imagine you gave Mr Potter a ring thus explaining your presence in my home so early in the morning."

"It's almost ten."

"The time is irrelevant. What matters is that you've disrupted my REM sleep as well as my morning."

"But it's nearly ten! You're usually wide awake by now."

"While my sleep schedule and habits are none of your concern, I find that we've veered off topic," he said. The phone was searing his thigh through the fabric of his trousers. "I'm sure Hermione is as curious as I am to know if you've caught her attacker, or not."

Potter straightened then and tore his gaze away from staring at Hermione, who'd evidently refused to meet his eyes, to him. The man's eyes darkened and hardened to pieces of emerald.

"We caught him the night Hermione went missing," Potter said. "At first, we didn't know what'd happened, but after we interrogated him, he had a quick trial and is now serving a life-sentence in prison."

"Who was he?" Hermione asked softly.

For a moment, Potter paused, hesitating, but after a minute he replied. "Antiko Darrow. The son of two criminals that died twelve years ago." The man's voice dropped an octave. "Their names were Antonin Dolohov and Alecto Carrow."

The moment those names fell from Potter's mouth, Hermione stiffened and squeezed her eyes shut. She groaned, dropping the mug in her hands as she grasped her head, knuckles paling at how tight her grip was. At her tormented whimper, he set his mug down and went to her side.

Despite having her eyes closed, she released one side of her head to grab his hand. He let her strangle the feeling from it as he quietly reminded her to construct a room for the memory. Steadfastly, he ignored Potter when he dropped to his knees beside him and Hermione.

Her eyelids opened the next instant and her gaze snapped to his before darting to Potter's jaded eyes. Storm clouds formed and gathered in her eyes, darkening the whiskey of her irises to mud.

" _Remus_." The whisper that came from her was soft, and yet, the most agonised the sound he'd ever heard. "H-He— Dol— _Remus_."

A thread of hesitation wound tightly around him. He flexed his hand, and like previous battles, he was unable to decide whether to comfort her or not. However, just like the times before, he was too late, and once more, she found comfort another's arms.

Despite her obvious reservations towards the man, Hermione allowed Potter to hold her as she once again mourned the loss of "Remus." She tucked her head into the crook of the man's neck and shoulder, and obvious didn't mind that Potter was stroking her mane of curls.

Gritting his teeth against the onslaught of emerald fire surging through his veins, he turned away from the scene and focused again on Lestrade instead. The DI also turned away from the two friends and met his gaze. With a tilt of his head in the direction of the door, he stood and headed into the kitchen, knowing Lestrade would catch his motion and follow.

"You knew, didn't you, Sherlock?" the DI questioned the moment they were far away enough not to be overheard.

He arched his brow, feigning ignorance. "Knew what?"

"Don't play ignorant. You know what I'm talking about."

"You're going to have to be a little more specific, Lestrade. I know a lot of things." He brushed nonexistent lint off his shoulder. "For instance, by the stiffness of your shirt, I know that you did your own laundry, thus telling me that you had another row with your wife—she refused wash your shirts. I also know, by the crumbs on your tie and marmalade stain on your shirt, that you had toast earlier, so you had to scrap together some semblance of a breakfast for yourself."

The DI rubbed a hand across his face. "Damn it, Sherlock! I'm talking about Hermione." Casting a glance over his shoulder, Lestrade went on. "If there's one thing I know about you, I know that when you have a case, you leave no fact, no detail, uncovered. You don't just find skeletons in closets. You rip them out, dust them off, and then put them on display for everyone to see.

"I know, for a fact, that when you looked into Hermione's life, you found Harry. There's was no way you could've missed him—there as close as siblings, for God's sake!—but that's not the point I'm trying to make."

"Then what is?" he asked, his tone sharp even to his ears.

"I want to know _why_ you didn't reunite Hermione with her friend."

Leaning in so that the duo in the other room wouldn't hear him, though he doubted that they'd be able to, he said, "I have my reasons, none of which involve you in any shape or form." His already sharp tone took on an almost venomous quality. "This is _my_ case, Lestrade. My reasons for not reuniting Hermione with Mr Potter, were just that—they were _my_ reasons. As far as you know, I was making sure her attacker wasn't still after her before I made any move to reunite her with her friend."

When the DI didn't immediately respond, he continued. "Furthermore, I see no reason as to why I needed to concern you with a private case. You come to me for help. Not the other way around."

Lestrade's cheek twitched, a particular tic that occurred when he was gearing for a rebuttal, but an outburst from Potter kept him from doing so. They shared a rather steely glance before returning to the main room.

He was unprepared for Potter's emerald gaze to pierce him nor was he prepared for the fury blazing in it.

"I am only going to ask you this once, Mr Holmes," Potter said lowly, his speech terse and threatening. "I expect the truth from you. And know that I will be able to tell if you are lying, and you _don't_ what to find out how I'll be able to, because I can assure you, it won't be pleasant." After he nodded, slowly, at Potter, the man stepped to stand on Hermione's other side, facing them, and brushed away her wild hair from her cheek. "Did you do this? Did you _dare_ to lay a hand on my friend?"

At the sight of faint purple bruise on Hermione's cheekbone, whips of fire lashed at his heart and licked at his skin. He swallowed the bile burning his oesophagus as well as the molten, _seething_ need to hunt down and end the perpetrator that had harmed her. Nails piercing the skin of his palm, he met Potter's steady, hardened gaze unflinchingly.

"I've never sought to harm her, nor would I ever seek to harm her," he replied. "I would hug my brother before entertaining the very thought of doing so."

It took a long, tense moment of silence for Potter to discern the truth in his words. The man nodded, a quick and sharp incline of his head, at him before crouching beside Hermione again.

"What happened then?" Potter asked, though he was unsure if the man was speaking to him or not.

Her eyes met his for a moment, but it was enough for him to see the struggle in her gaze. It was enough for him to see the caution and worry roiling in the eyes that never failed to look past the mask he wore. Nor did those eyes fail to penetrate the walls he'd constructed around that feeble organ in his chest.

The sight was the deciding factor of his response—he nodded his head, permitting and assuring her that it was okay to speak of yesterday's events.

With a nod in return, Hermione returned her gaze to Potter. She took a small but deep breath before she spoke.

"I went to get the shopping last night, and a brute gave me trouble on my way back. I got the bruise when I wouldn't cooperate with him. Long story short, Sherlock took care of the problem," she said without her gaze wavering from Potter's gaze.

Both Potter and Lestrade turned to him, as if needing confirmation of her story. Despite the fact that she'd deliberately withheld most of yesterday's events, nothing she'd said was untrue. A brute had accosted her upon her return with the shopping, that same brute had assaulted her when she wouldn't cooperate, and he had taken care of Moriarty even if was only temporary.

In response, he nodded, _once again_ , at them and they returned their focus to Hermione.

"Are you all right?" Potter asked, taking ahold of her hands. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Her unruly hair bounced when she shook her head. "No. I'm fine. Just hungry."

As if summoned, Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway, another tray in her hands. His stomach rumbled faintly at the sight and scent of breakfast, full English.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," he said, taking the tray from her.

The landlady glanced at Hermione and Harry then arched a brow at him. He shook his head minutely, and with that, she left the room. At the sound of her door closing, he turned back to his flatmate and guests.

"Now, if you have no further questions and concerns, Mr Potter, Lestrade, I suggest that we conclude this _visit_ —" There really was no other word he could politely use to describe Lestrade and Potter invading the sanctity of his home. "—as I'm sure you both have a busy day of trying to solve crimes and dealing with stuffy politicians ahead of you."

"Pardon?"

"Oi! What do you mean 'trying to solve crimes'?"

He shook his head and set the tray down on the table against the wall. "As it is almost ten-thirty, and I've yet to shower let alone change, and Hermione has yet to eat breakfast, I believe it would be in everyone's best interest if the two of you returned in a couple of hours. Perhaps by then we may discuss the issue of Hermione's living situation, yes? Now, off you go."

Herding them towards the door, he shoved them through the threshold before shutting, and locking, it behind them. He needn't worry about the entrance of the hall in the kitchen, as it was already shut—and locked—so his "guests" were unable to re-enter the flat unless he unlocked and opened either entrance.

With a glower at the door—he wouldn't put it past Lestrade to try and cajole Mrs Hudson into opening the doors as she had a set of keys to flat—and a soft sigh, he turned away from the entrance. His gaze was quick to meet Hermione's and she stared at him curiously. The intensity of her stare forced him to raise his defences and slip on his usual mask of cool indifference.

"Are you going to stare at me all morning, or are you going to bombard me with the questions that are gathering on the tip of your tongue?" he asked, striding across the room to return his seat to the table.

"Are you okay?"

He paused in his task of cleaning Hermione's spilled coffee. A single beat of silence passed between them before he finished cleaning the mess.

"I believe that under the current circumstances, I should be the one asking you that. After all, you've just been reunited with your _best friend_." The words were so bitter that they left a foul aftertaste in his mouth.

He ruthlessly ignored the spasms of his heart in his chest and forced the thoughts of Hermione leaving into a dark closet within his Mind Palace. Now was not the time for such thoughts, not while he had the chance to convince her that staying with him—and John—would be the best option for her recovery. After all, in the span of nearly two months, she'd recover more than a handful, or two, of memories.

"Does it ever get tiring?" she inquired suddenly, once more causing him to falter.

This time, he ceased scrubbing at the spill on the rug entirely in favour of meeting her eyes. Perhaps if he hadn't known her as well as he did, her question would have confused him, but he didn't so he understood what she was asking.

And he didn't know how to answer her.

He couldn't lie to her, because she'd already proven that she could see through his lies—Mycroft could so do on occasion, however, that was because he didn't really put much effort into lying most times. If he lied, she would perceive it for what it was and he didn't fancy telling her the truth either.

"If you're asking whether I grow tired of believing that sentiment is a disadvantage, you're wasting your time. You already know the answer," he said with a tinge of severity in his tone.

"And what makes you so sure that I know?" Neither her voice nor her eyes were accusing, but rather, curiosity filled them.

Standing, he moved to throw away the shattered remains of Hermione's mug away. He took the time to formulate a response that would soothe her inquiry but also keep him from revealing too much information—and himself—with her. Upon his return to the main room, he noted that Hermione had turned her chair around so it, and she, sat at the table once more.

"It hasn't escaped my attention that you have, on many occasions, correctly deduced my thoughts and beliefs regarding certain topics and circumstances," he said, finally taking a seat at the table as well to enjoy his breakfast. "I merely assumed that you would do the same now, though I am curious as to why you ask."

She shrugged her shoulders, tousling her already wild curls just slightly. "I guess I just want to hear it for your mouth. That you really are fine with going through life without forming attachments or caring for someone beyond the barest minimum," she clarified, removing her breakfast from the tray and setting it before her.

"You wish for me to confirm what you already know?" He furrowed his brows. "And why would you want such a thing?"

"Because I don't believe that you don't care about anything or anyone, Sherlock."

Suddenly, he couldn't breathe, because she had reached across the table to lay her hand atop his. His lungs ceased functioning, for his entire being stilled in favour of basking in the familiarity of her touch. Painful yet pleasurable tendrils of fire branched across his skin and through his veins, but it was the warmth in her gaze that enthralled him most.

He was not stubborn enough to insist that she was incorrect, because she wasn't. If there was one thing he knew about Hermione Granger, he was sure that her personality hadn't changed much in that time. While he didn't know much of what had happened after she'd abandoned him all those years ago, her temperament and personality was the same as that of her fifteen-year-old self's.

Yes, Hermione still had that innate ability to see through the sharp, uncaring facade he'd constructed to protect himself from hurt. Even now, at age thirty-one, and with no recollection of him or their once-shared affections, she was still warm and kind, not to mention in possession of the ability, and patience, to understand him. It was dreadfully bittersweet to know that while she cared platonically for him now, she didn't remember that she had once cared romantically for him.

"I know you rigourously maintain that mask of yours—" She then took his one hand in both of hers. "—I won't ask why and I won't take a guess, but just know that I don't believe in it even for a second."

"Why?" He ignored the faint hoarse quality of his voice.

"Because your actions are louder than any words you could ever say."

The dryness of his mouth was swallowed away. "And what do they say?"

His gazed dropped down to the hand she'd captured. The sight of her dainty fingers tracing the calluses on fingertips, which he'd garnered from playing the violin, soothed him. Years ago, she'd done the same thing, as he'd taken up the violin that beginning of that same year.

For a moment, she didn't answer him, and he was content watching her trace the contours of his hand. There were slight calluses on her fingers as well, and it was an interesting sensation to have her trail her fingertips across the smooth skin of his palm. He struggled with the need to clasp her hand in his, to entwine their fingers together as they once had a long, long time ago.

But now was not then—not anymore.

"Most times, they're rather reluctant to speak, as if you're struggling the with decision to do something or not," she murmured, her index finger trailing the lines on his palm. "Other times, they speak absent-mindedly, as if you aren't aware you're doing what you're doing. And sometimes, they speak with a succinct deliberance, but often times they're aloof, as if you're trying to cover up the fact that you are quite capable of feeling."

Dainty fingers stilled for a moment before they did as he so dearly wanted— _needed_ —them to do: she wove their fingers together. "But there times, rare as they may be, when your actions speak so softly, so quietly, and with a genuine, careful tenderness that does more than just prove you can feel, Sherlock." She squeezed his hand. "Those are the actions that means you care. And more than you let on."

Her words resonated in his ears, resounded in his mind, and ever so slightly, his masked slipped. Why was it that she could understand him, but not remember him? How could she treat him with such warmth? It was the same warmth that she'd had for him when he had her affections, when he thought he had her heart as she had his.

The very thought of caused his heart to ache, and the pain the reverberated through him forced him to pull away. His masked slid into place as the ache seared and spanned across his chest.

"And you're sure of this?" He pulled his hand away to finish his breakfast. "You're observations are by no means conclusive. They're subjective."

Silence settled between them as he ate, but the quiet from comfortable. He cast a brief glance at Hermione to find her watching him with a soft, unreadable look. Deciphering it was difficult as he was unused to seeing such a forlorn expression on her face.

"What?" he demanded sharply.

She shook her head. "It's nothing." After a sigh, she went on. "So, what did you think about Harry?"

"I believe the only opinion that matters here is yours," he replied after wiping his mouth with a serviette. "It doesn't matter what I think. After all, he is your _best friend_." The words were more bitter this time.

The brunette didn't immediately respond, apparently content to idly dip her toast into the yolk of her eggs. "I'm not sure what to think." She tugged at her curls with her free hand. "I mean, I've seen him in my memories, and I have this sure and unwavering feeling that I can trust him, but I...I just don't feel...comfortable trying to refit him into the role of my 'best friend' when I can hardly remember him."

"I expect that you would feel as such."

"And maybe I'm being silly for feeling this way, but I'm just a little bit afraid."

"There is nothing for you to fear," he said. "Your attacker has been captured and locked away. From what I can tell, you are regaining your memories rather quickly, and according my calculations, I surmise that you should recover the rest of you memories within the next couple months. That is if your are progressing at the same rate as you have."

"And what are the chances that you're wrong?" she questioned, no longer toying with her toast. "What if the change in environment impedes my progress? What then?"

This was his chance, he was sure. If he wanted her to stay here, with him—and John—then this was the moment he needed to change her mind. And yet, as he opened his mouth to convince her into remaining at Baker Street with him, he couldn't find the words to persuade her.

The whispering of his conscience caused him to pause.

It was wrong, it was unfair, to keep her with him when she really needed was Potter and her home. For all of his selfishness and stubbornness, he would never hesitate to put Hermione's needs and desire before his own. His heart would not allow it.

True to form, it would not do so now.

"I am more than certain that you will be able to regain your memory when you return to environs that are more familiar to you," he said slowly. Each word lashed at the walls around his heart. "If the chance that I am wrong exists, then you are welcome to return here, should you desire to do so."

"Really?" The word was a curious mixture of hope and surprise. "You wouldn't mind? I mean, you've already been kind enough to let me stay here, not to mention the clothes you bought me, but I don't want to be a burden."

He arched his brow. "And this coming from the woman that has struggled in vain to clean the perpetual mess of this flat everyday for the past seven weeks?"

"That's not the same."

"Nevertheless, if you can put up with my constant untidiness, _Merlin_ knows—" He smirked at her. "—how much that frustrates Mrs Hudson at times, then I'm sure you'd be anything but a burden. Besides, John enjoys the home-cooked meals and he would surely miss you, as he is constantly amused by our disagreements. Mrs Hudson would miss you as well, I'm sure she appreciates having an extra set of hands helping her tend to her marijuana seedlings."

This time, she arched her brow at him. "Oh, so only John and Mrs Hudson would miss me? You wouldn't?"

"No, because I do miss sleeping in my bed and I would enjoy having my wardrobe to myself once again."

"Your lips twitched, you liar. I bet you would miss the bacon sandwiches."

"Of course, but I'm sure if I whine and pout enough, Mrs Hudson would consent to making them every so often."

Hermione's delighted laugh soothed the lingering ache in him. Her smile was sweet and warm, her eyes twinkling with amusement. The sight was another thing he would miss when she was gone, but then again, he would miss everything about her.

With a shake of his head, he stood. "If you'll excuse me, I believe that I'm in dire need of a shower and a fresh change of clothes."

His brunette flatmate waved in the direction of the bathroom. "Please, don't let me stop you."

Humming in response, he left the main room.

He swiftly gather a fresh shirt, pants, and trousers before retreating to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, he returned to his room with his curls still wet, not dripping, but feeling refreshed nonetheless. With his feet socked and slippered, he joined Hermione in the lounge once again.

"Have you decided?" he asked, opening his laptop.

She swallowed the last of her breakfast before responding, "What?"

"Will you be returning with Mr Potter?"

"While I'm not wholly comfortable with the prospect, I'm going to trust your judgement, so yes, I've decided to go back with Harry."

Hearing her confirm what he already knew, assuring that he was right, didn't fill him with satisfaction as it normally would. No—this time, it filled him with dread. He ruthlessly kept his facade from faltering.

"I will inform Mrs Hudson then as I assume you will need some help packing," he said.

"Wait? What?" she asked, bewildered.

"The most logical conclusion would be that you will leave today with Mr Potter." He began cleaning up to keep from looking at her. "As there is no point in delaying the inevitable."

"Oh...right." Eyes shutting against the onslaught of emotions against his defences, he pretended not to notice the sadness in her voice. "Well, I guess I'll just go get ready then."

Busying himself with putting the dishes in the sink, he merely listened to the sound of her footsteps as they retreated to his room. When she was there, he returned to the main room, falling into his armchair gracelessly. There was a sharp throbbing at temples, but the ache was nothing compared to the one in his chest.

This was another reason why he suppressed his emotions. He was unaccustomed to the physical strain it put on his body. Most of the time, since he not used to feeling so deeply, it left him tired. Moreover, the chaos feeling and emotions brought ruined his rigid self-control.

However, his life before Hermione had been such a dreary existence.

He could recall perfectly of days where he was the subject of derision from Mycroft or disappointment from his parents. Other times, he remembered the whispered and declared, ridiculing words of classmates; it didn't matter how many times he changed schools, the antipathy followed. The days where he experienced even a modicum of contentment were few in number.

For the past seven, almost eight, weeks, he remembered how he had fallen for Hermione so easily. Her fire, equal parts passionate and warm, had drew him in, and it had enthralled him. It didn't take long for him to discover her character, and he lost his heart to her.

The result of the relationship, however, had left him with burns that he yet to heal.

Like years before though, he'd easily been drawn in by her fire, reminded of the reasons why he loved her. He'd fallen again, but this time, he was sure that he would obtain new wounds from staying too close to her. It didn't matter how much he tried to distance himself from her—the burns were inevitable.

A knock on the door drew him from his thoughts. Standing, he smoothed his trousers before moving to the door.

When he pulled open the door, his eyes landed on Mrs Hudson briefly before catching sight of the two men standing behind her. His gazes darted over them swiftly, pulling deductions from each man and storing them in his Mind Palace, before finally meeting the intensely black sight of the dark, brooding man first.

The sharp gleam of intelligence distracted him from summarising the deductions he'd pull from this man. When there was a soft sting in his frontal lobe, he winced and the man's eyes narrowed slightly. Ripping his eyes away from the first man, he turned to the second man, who was the opposite of the first.

Where the first was dark in his looks and far from the ideal of handsome, the second was lighter in his appearance and perhaps the embodiment of the world's perception of attractive. The man's hair was platinum blond, nearly white, and his eyes were as grey as steel. Aristocratic, symmetrical features clashed with the angular, Roman features of the first man.

Yet, they were both finely dressed in designer black suits, shirts, and shoes. The only difference in their clothing was that the first man forewent a matching tie and the second man had luxury watch gleaming on his wrist.

"Mrs Hudson?" He raised his eyebrow at his landlady. "More company?"

"It would seem so," she said.

He stepped aside and gestured for them to come in. With a reassuring look, he motioned for his landlady to leave them. The older woman did so with worried glance at him before she retreated down the stairs.

"Pardon our intrusion, Mr Holmes," the second man said, his voice a smooth, cultured drawl. "My colleague and I did not mean to disrupt your morning."

"It's fine," he replied, his voice equally smooth if not a little terse. "Though I see no point in wasting our time with banal chitchat. Let's just get down to business then, shall we?"

The first man arched an imperious brow at him. His voice was deeper than the first with an almost silk-like quality to it when he said, "Indeed."

"Mr Holmes, my name is Draco Malfoy, and this is my associate, Severus Snape," Mr Malfoy said cooly. "I am the CEO of Malfoy Inc. The company is a small, but multinational investment banking firm that specialises in global investment banking, securities, investment management, and other financial services. Until recently, we've branched into technology.

"Malfoy Technologies develops, manufactures, licences, supports, and sells consumer electronics, personal computers, and computer software, to a small, but global community of Luddite consumers." He paused to narrow his gaze at him. "Despite the miniscule size of my company, Mr Holmes, I can assure you that I am a very powerful man. Moreover, it has come to my attention that you are in possession of a very important piece to technology."

He arched his brow at the CEO, unsure as to what the man wanted. "If I did have this very important piece of technology, what makes you so sure that I am, in fact, in possession of it?"

Malfoy reached into the lapel of his suit and withdrew a neatly folded sheet of paper. Unfolding it, the blond man hand it to him, and he took it with slightly reluctance. His mouth dried at the details and image of Hermione's phone and the map on the bottom half of the paper. There was a red dot on Baker Street and message box linked to the dot.

The message box read:

 _HG MOBILE_

 _Status: Active._

 _Last Activated: 21.34, Feb. 5, 2010._

 _Current Location: 221 Baker Street, London, England, United Kingdom._

When Malfoy spoke next, the steel in his voice that match the steel in his eyes. "Mr Holmes, perhaps you could explain to me why my fiancée's mobile was activated early this morning at this address. Or better yet, perhaps you could explain why her mobile is in your possession in the first place."

He opened his mouth to speak, but a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Turning, his eyes met Hermione's, but when she smile at him, it could not soothe the turmoil within him.

Worse yet, Malfoy and Snape caught sight of her as well, that did not worry him. No—what worried him the most was the softness of Malfoy's gaze as he turned it upon Hermione. He recognised the look in the man's eyes because it mirrored what he held in his heart for the woman.

Malfoy's eyes were filled with love as he looked at Hermione.

Finally, the man's words registered in his mind, and his walls cracked under the strain of the realisation that came to him: Hermione was engaged to Draco Malfoy.

* * *

SH + HG

* * *

 _Meanwhile..._

The room was opulent to the point of being revoltingly gaudy. Of course, he really wasn't interested in the decor. Nor was he interested in the scantily clad woman— _succubus_ —seated across from him.

However, he was mildly—or rather, hardly—impressed that she put so much effort in her scheme of seduction. It was rather unfortunate for her however, as he was uninterested in her sexually.

Really, the only interest he had in her involved the sleek, black device cradled in the palm of her hand. Not that she needed to know this, of course.

"What do you want?" he asked, getting straight to the point.

The woman chuckled and gave him—what he assumed to be—a sultry look. Inwardly, he snorted at the absurdity of it. He was not a man to be swayed by pleasures of the flesh, be it by a woman or a man, for he was above such primitive things.

"What will you give me?" she questioned in return.

He crossed his hands over his lap, eyeing her critically. "Now that rather defeats the purpose of my question."

"Of course, but really, what's the point in asking if you can't give it to me?"

"You won't know unless you ask."

A smirk curled her rouged lips. "Well then, Mr Moriarty, there really is only one thing that I want, but I don't think you'll be able to give it to me."

He arched his brow at her, half-intrigued and half-irritated that she doubted his capabilities. "Yes?"

"I need you to get rid of some people for me." She produced a manila folder and set it on the coffee table separating them. "In exchange for the code, of course."

Taking the folder off the table, he flipped it open and leisurely scanned its contents. He didn't bother to hide his snort this time when he finished reading the list of names she'd provided. Really, it wouldn't take much time or effort to get rid of most the list, but there were two or three that would require more than hiring an assassin or some henchmen.

"Is the code encrypted?" he asked, not looking up at her.

"Not at all."

When he raised his gaze, she stood and slunk—for her gait was most certainly the sensuous slink of a fox, or a siren—towards him. She paused behind his chair, lent over the back and his right shoulder to hold her phone before him. The closeness of her and the scent of her rich, musky perfume would have distracted those with wills of iron, and while he was strong-willed, he remained unaffected.

"Here you are," she whispered into his ear, her breath sultry.

He ignored her in favour of glancing at her phone screen, which displayed a series of numbers and letters. Immediately, his mind went to work, memorising the code before she could pull it away. It only took a moment to figure out what the code meant, but rather than give an indication that he'd done so, he began scheming.

And as always, when he planned, it was to decimate his greatest foe.

Sherlock Holmes.

Now that he knew that Hermione Granger—he would only begrudgingly admit, _very_ begrudgingly, that she was a moderately attractive woman in his mind—was nothing but a case to Sherlock, all he needed to do was find a better way to burn him. And looking at this succubus, he surmised that she just might be able to help him set fire to the youngest Holmes brother.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE** | I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Your support keeps me going, and it brings a smile to my face to know that you guys enjoy the story so far c:

 _Thanks for reading!_


	10. WHEN ACHE REMAINS

**_NOT EDITED!_**

* * *

CHAPTER TEN

WHEN ACHE REMAINS

* * *

He exhaled, the air wrenched from him so sharply that pain ripped across his chest. Malfoy approached Hermione and he could only watch, a tempest brewing within him.

The brunette stood in the doorway between the kitchen and main room, her hair damp and hanging in loose, if not tangled, curls. A white lace and chiffon blouse and dark jeans flattered her figure—not that he was paying any _particular_ attention to it, of course—and plain socks adorned her feet She was wearing make-up, for the bruise on her cheek was gone and her lips were just a little more pink than normal—again, not that any particular attention...

Shaking the thought from his head, he steeled himself for Hermione's reaction. She wouldn't be engaged to Malfoy if she didn't love him; of that, he was sure. Even at the very least, she would have a deep affection for him. Naturally, loyalty would accompany her affection.

Clenching his fist, his eyes followed Malfoy's movements. The blond reached out for her then. Every centimetre of space that vanished between Malfoy and Hermione drove a lance of searing pain further into him.

" _Malfoy_?" Disgust flourished across Hermione's face and filled her voice. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Really, she shouldn't have made him nearly delirious with delight, and she shouldn't have ignited the fading cinders of hope in his chest into a pulsing flame. However, her evident disdain for Malfoy made him happy and hopeful. Not that he allowed himself to hint at his euphoria let alone show it.

 _Pathetic, lovesick fool._

A flicker of emotion in Malfoy's eyes dashed the stirrings of euphoria bubbling within him. He absorbed the sight, winced at the flash of sharp, severing pain in the man's gaze as if it'd been his own. Malfoy cringed just slightly—had he not been paying attention to the man, he wouldn't have noticed it—before the blond's face cleared and a calm expression settled there.

Hermione turned to him, eyes pieces of dark, polished amber. "What is he doing here?"

The biting edge to her tone stunned him. It was red paint on a white canvas, contrasting with her normally friendly, warm demeanour.

"I see that you've already recognised one of our guest, therefore, I assume that you know of the other," he said, casting a glance at Mr Snape.

Snape's face was expressionless, neither calm nor indifferent, but there was a bright glint in his eyes. One could describe the look as observant, but it was more scrutinising than anything else. Yet, Snape's look was far from distressing, unlike Lestrade when he'd finally met Hermione for the first time.

As if noticing him for the first time, surprise coloured Hermione more than just her face. "Professor? Why are you here as well?"

Like Malfoy, the flash of emotion in Snape's eyes was so quick and brief that he would've missed it had he not been examining the man carefully. Where Malfoy had been in pain, however, Snape's was of confusion and concern. A moment later, the dark man resumed his carefully, blank mask.

"Miss Granger, I'm glad to see you're well." Despite the flat tone, the man's voice was oddly sincere—if one disregarded the deep, imposing furrowing of his brows as gaze narrowed. "However, seeing as you've not been my student for more than a decade, I suggest you address me by my given name."

"Of course, Severus, but I ask that you return the same courtesy," she said. There was a softness in her voice that belied the hard look on her face. When she set her sight upon him once more, however, her face softened as well. "Sherlock?"

He understood her unspoken question. "Mr Snape and Mr Malfoy have come looking for you."

"Me?" She turned to the men. "Why would either of you look for me?"

"Mr Malfoy claims—"

The blond in question cut him off before he could finish. "I'd assume that any normal man would search for his fiancée had she been missing for eight weeks."

Silence consumed the atmosphere. Hermione stared blatantly at Malfoy. For once, her eyes were blank. A shiver curled down the length of his spine at the sight of the brunette's normally warm, expressive gaze now cool and empty.

As quickly as it had come, the silence diminished as flames melted the ice of Hermione's expression. Truly, her fury was a sight to behold, but now was perhaps one of the most inappropriate moments to be in awe of her anger. Especially since the brunette, unknowingly, had the power to destroy Malfoy with a few simple words.

"No." Her hair frizzed with the disbelieving fury on her face. "There's no I could ever be engaged to a foul, loathsome, evil, little cockroach."

There it was again—the flicker of pain in Malfoy's eyes. Only this time, confusion accompanied the evident ache. He decided to take pity on the blond man despite that fact that Malfoy was his rival in love—yes, it was as asinine as it sounded.

 _Deductions, save me from sentiment._

"As I'm sure as you've already surmised," he said, causing the rest of the room's occupants to turn to him, "Hermione has amnesia. Retrograde amnesia, to be specific. She is missing nineteen years worth of her memory."

Malfoy was quick to look at Hermione again. "What's the last, clearest thing that you can remember?"

She glared at the blond. "You're going to have to be more specific, Malfoy. Some of my memories have returned since I've been staying with Sherlock."

"Hermione." They all turned to the dark man. "It would be most appreciated if you could enlighten us with the earliest memory you had before regaining the others."

She nodded then her brows furrowed. "I remember waking up the day I broke up from school when I was eleven. I'd enrolled in a reading programme because they worked most mornings and afternoons. Since I was too old for a babysitter, but still too young to stay at home by myself, I suggested the programme rather than stay at with Great Aunt Genevieve—she'd always try, and fail, mind you, to tame my hair.

"I'd hurried downstairs for breakfast because we were going to leave after we ate, but after that, I can't remember anything else," she said, frustration scrawled across her face. With a shake of her head, the expression was gone, and she pinned Malfoy with a glare. "That aside, what I'd like to know is how my childhood bully and former professor managed to find me."

At her words, he carefully slipped his hand into his pocket. Finding it empty, he scrambled to recall the location of Hermione's phone. _Ah, yes._ It was his other trousers, in his laundry hamper. While the tension in his shoulder vanished, the stiffness of his spine had yet to go away.

"You see—"

"—I tracked your phone."

He glared at Malfoy and the blond did the same. Simultaneously, they both turned back to Hermione, who looked all together unsure, confused, and slightly amused. With a shake of her head, she focused her sight on Malfoy.

"What do you mean you tacked my phone?" Her brows pinched. "I don't have my phone. Sherlock and John said I didn't have a phone when they found me."

Both men looked to him with narrowed eyes. Used to Mycroft's calculated scrutiny, he maintained his indifferent, cool facade. After a moment, Malfoy and Snape turned away.

"Your phone was activated last night, Hermione," Malfoy said, stepping towards him, hand outstretched.

Frost began to permeate his bloodstream. It took all of his control not to look towards his room, where Hermione's phone was. However, he couldn't risk suspicion by not giving Malfoy the paper in his grasp; slowly, he returned it to the CEO.

His eyes followed Malfoy as the man moved towards Hermione. She then took the paper offered to her by the blond and read it.

In his throat, his heart the passage blocked, preventing air from entering his lungs. Seconds stretched into a minute. Finally an eternity passed, and Hermione finally turned her whiskey-brown eyes upon him.

He didn't know what he expected to find in her gaze when she finished examining the paper. A large part of him braced for the recrimination he would find in her gaze. Surely she would realise that he'd been lying to her, especially since the proof was in her hands.

What he actually found surprised him.

Maybe he shouldn't have underestimated her again, but it was a habit he couldn't break. As always, Hermione didn't look at him with disappointment or anger when she caught him lying. No—she looked at him curiously, if not with a little confusion. The expression on her face coaxed his heart to return to his chest and he sucked in a quiet breath of air.

"Sherlock—" Her imperiously raised brow belied the soft glint of humour in her eyes. "—care to share?"

Despite the racing of his pulse, he raised a brow imperiously at her. "And what makes you think that I have anything to divulge?"

She snorted—deductions be damned if it wasn't endearing. "Sherlock, I know you better than you know yourself." Before he could say otherwise, she continued, "Deny it and you won't get sandwiches."

Lips twisting into a pout, he muttered, "Give me a moment."

Without so much as another word, he stalked to his room. He fished his trousers out from the hamper, ripped the device from his pocket, and dropped the article of clothing before returning to the main room. Unceremoniously, he handed the mobile to Hermione, but remained beside her rather than return to his spot by his music stand. Gaze narrowed, he glowered at the men opposite of them.

Hermione remained silent as she turned the device over in her hand. After a moment, she met his eyes and shook her head, exasperation bleeding from her.

She turned to the blond. "Is this is, Malfoy?"

A perfectly-maintained brow arched. "Why ask when you have the verification in your hand?"

"Helpful as ever." He unsuccessfully suppressed a smirk at her muttering. Of course, she caught sight of him and turned obvious irritation upon him. "Oh, don't think I've forgotten about you, sir. I'd like to know why you kept my phone from me. Not that I'm angry—because I expected you would do something like this—mind you, but I _am_ rather annoyed I had to find out that you lied and were hiding my phone, _from Malfoy_."

"Then I apologise for the inconvenience."

Really, he wasn't sorry—not when he loathed Malofy as much as Hermione seemed to.

" _Right_ ," the brunette drawled.

The sound of knocking drifted up the stairs and he withheld a sign. He caught Hermione looking towards the door of their flat, which had remained open since the arrival of two men, and he huffed when Lestrade's familiar voice reached his ears. Rolling his eyes, he threw himself into his armchair and waited for the DI to join the tempest brewing in his flat.

Mrs Hudson wasn't with Lestrade and Potter this time: she had the sensibility to eavesdrop from the hallway—and rightly so, if the look on Potter's face when he saw Malfoy was anything to go by. One could only describe the man's as mild antipathy tinged with reluctant intrigue. He would go as far to say that Potter's face was a mirror of his own whenever he laid eyes on Mycroft.

"What're you doing here, Malfoy?" Potter didn't even make an effort to mask his dislike for the other man.

The blond sneered, and opened his mouth to respond, but Hermione didn't give him a chance.

"He's searching for his _fianceé_ ," she said—her words were rather bland, even for her.

He pressed a hand to his mouth to hide the vicious grin that found its way to his lips. Potter's eyes widened, Malfoy shifted impercibly, Snape rolled his eyes, and Lestrade's brow furrowed. In all honesty, the entire situation was quite comical.

The amusement bubbling within him quickly faded at the reminder of Hermione's engagement to Malfoy. He clenched his fist, but there was no other physical indication of his his distress and displeasure. Gritting his teeth, he forced the bitter frost and tender warmth waging war in his chest away. The bite of pain as his nails pierced the flesh of his palms didn't bother him, but distracted him from the verdant fire curling up his spine and whispering in his ear.

" _F-Fianceé_?" Potter sputtered, glancing at Malfoy before turning to Hermione. "Who? No offense, 'mione—but _you_?"

"Apparently," she drawled, looking far from offended.

Then, much to his surprise, Potter choked on what seemed to be a laugh. "Yeah, _right._ I know you and Malfoy have been on good terms the past few years, but I still know you better; there's no way you'd marry Malfoy."

The man in question visibly bristled. "And _you're_ so sure about this, Potter?"

"I am." Potter narrowed his gaze. "Not that it's any of _your_ business, but 'mione—I will never understand why—did tell me that she sees you as a very good _friend_ , Malfoy."

Hermione's lips pursed, disbelief clearly written on her face. She met his gaze and he smirked, enjoying her pleasure. With a roll of her eyes, she perched on the arm of his chair—the arm furthest away from the group, near the fireplace—and he flexed away the tension his hand. The warmth flickering in the depths of his Thoracic cavity melted the wall of frost entrapping his heart.

He turned away, wrestled with the storm roiling inside him. Jaw clenched, he squashed and shoved his emotions behind the firm, broad walls of his defences. With his control no longer slipping from his grasp, some of the tension in his shoulders melted away, but his awareness remained sharp, particularly in regards to the woman sitting on the arm of his chair.

"Are you two finished arguing like schoolchildren?" Mr Snape interjected, his drawl smooth and sonorous.

Almost immediately, the two men fell silent. Hermione snickered under her breath, and he would deny, if accused, that his lips twitched just slightly.

"Hermione—" The brunette straightened at Potter's address. "—suffice to say, you're not engaged to Malfoy."

He frowned at the entrepreneur. "Then why make such a claim?"

"That's need to know, Mr Holmes—" Malfoy tipped up his chin. "—and you don't need to know."

Hermione squeezed his shoulder, keeping him from a verbal retaliation. "As much as I'd like to know as well, I'm sure you have your reasons, Malfoy. And as much as I want to say that your visit was a... _pleasant_ surprise, it would be a lie, so if you would be so kind as to—pardon my manners—leave then I would appreciate it greatly."

Of course, he had to once again stifle his amusement at the blond man's face, which was pink and spattered with surprise and indignation, but he wasn't the only one entertained by the situation. Snape, for his part, was more apt at hiding his mirth than Potter was—he was outright laughing. Naturally, Lestrade was lost.

"Then we will take our leave," Snape said smoothly. "Good afternoon then, Hermione."

With a bow of his head, the older man ushered Malfoy out the door. Hermione let a visible sigh of relief just as Potter and Lestrade, once he pulled himself from his stupor, took a seat on the sofa.

The DI was the first to speak. "What was that about?"

"Turns out that Sherlock had my phone the whole time and Malfoy traced it back to here." Hermione moved to John's armchair. "Which explains more or less explains why he came here, never mind Prof— Severus."

"Severus is Malfoy's godfather as well as your research partner," Potter supplied.

"Research partner?" His inquiry overlapped with Hermione's.

Of course, Potter looked to her when responding. "For the past four, I think it's five now, years. Your partnership started out with a, uh... _chemistry_ project—" He caught Harry's pause but said nothing. "—and all I can say about it right now is that the project's classified, but it proved successful. Since then, you and Severus have worked on several different projects. When you're not working for the government, of course."

He found himself unsurprised that Hermione assisted her former Chemistry instructor in her spare time. With her brilliance and intellect, it was a given that she would have some sort of academic pursuit aside from her job as government grunt. If not for these projects with Mr Snape, she would've driven herself mad from the constrictions of having an occupation in bureaucracy.

Luckily, she hadn't ended up like Mycroft: perpetually uptight and in possession of a lacklustre personality.

Their conversation lulled then and the silence grated on his nerves.

Hermione fidgeted and looked to him with a slightly pleading gaze. He would never admit it aloud, but the fact that she relied on him, that she looked to him for guidance, soothed his still raw wounds. For this moment, he didn't fight the tenderness warming his chest, but at the same time, he kept it from overwhelming him.

His nod was so she knew that he caught her unspoken plea.

When he met Potter's gaze, it was unwavering. "Despite her reservations, I've managed to reassure Hermione that returning home with you will further her progress in regaining her memories. Am I correct in assuming that you wish her to return with you today?"

"You are," Potter replied.

He didn't respond but turned to Hermione instead. The apprehension pulsing from her bothered him, because he couldn't soothe her in the way the smitten teenager within him wanted to, which was by holding her to him and tenderly reassuring her that all will be well. That boy was lost, hidden in the deepest parts of him.

It was quite tragic, if one pondered on the situation long enough. Just when the love of his boyhood returned, she had no recollection of him. Nor did she realise that the cool, cerebral man housing her had once held her heart just as she had his.

Their so-called "story" was perhaps worthy of its own Shakespearean tragedy.

Shoving the maudlin, sappy— _fool, fool, fool_ —thought aside, he subtly tilted his head towards Potter. It wasn't much, but it was all the encouragement he could give her. He had to swallow the gentle words bubbling up his throat and frown away the longing to smile. Luckily, Hermione understood what he couldn't articulate or express.

She took a deep breath then released it. "Like Sherlock said, he's convinced me that going home will help...so I'll be heading home with you after all."

Potter grinned widely and his frown deepened. "That's great, 'mione! Everyone's been worried about you and they all miss you so much."

"I'm sure," she murmured. A thought flickered in her eyes. "But I'll only come back on one condition."

His breath caught just slightly when she looked at him with such warmth-tinged mischief. The quirk of her lips enthralled him, and suddenly, he was back at the park bench in Islington, kissing her for the first time. When she broke their gaze, the memory dissipated and his chest was tight.

"Anything. Just name it," was Potter's reply.

"I will visit Sherlock, John, and Mrs Hudson whenever I'd like. Provided they're not busy otherwise," she said, directing a grin coloured with affectionate mischief at him.

It took all of his will not to snort at the unflattering look of shock on Potter's face. Lestrade, of course, was still utterly lost with their conversation in general.

After a moment, Potter regained his composure. "I don't think that's a good idea, 'mione."

Hermione huffed. "And why not?" If she were standing, her hands would have settled on her hips. "I'm an amnesiac not an child. Sherlock, John, and Mrs Hudson are my friends as well, and I've come to care for them quite a bit."

"I know you're perfectly able of taking care of yourself," Potter replies, almost soothingly, "but I'm just worried about you, 'mione."

"And while I appreciate your concern," she said softly, "I'm far from fragile. I simply want to visit my friends. If it makes you feel any better, you can accompany me every time."

He watched the battle waging in Potter's head through the man's eyes as Hermione sat poised on the end of her seat, obviously waiting for a response. Despite her reluctance to refit Potter as her "best friend" in her life, the man's opinion mattered to her to some degree; he was sure that her regard for Potter was on a subconscious level and had somehow managed to bleed through the haze of her mind.

Moments later, Potter sighed. "I'm sure we can arrange something."

The sight of her joyful smile warmed and chilled him. She was one step further away from leaving him, but he couldn't find it in himself to be dismayed at her leaving—not when it meant she would be safe and get her memories back.

"No that we've settled that—" Hopefully they didn't notice that his voice just ever so hoarse. "—perhaps now we be an apt time to pack."

Her dismay showed on her face and he was unsure as to whether it soothed or saddened him. By this point, he was so tired of feeling that all he wanted to do is sleep—it was a safer choice than the alternative.

"Do you need help, 'mione?" Potter was already out of his seat.

"No, no. I'm fine," she said.

He interjected, "You could get some boxes from Mrs Hudson—" He ignored Lestrade's bafflement. "—She uses 221C as storage."

With a nod, Potter left to look for the landlady and the DI followed. Hermione then slowly rose from her seat and went to his bedroom.

A moment passed before he did the same.

He stopped in the threshold, watching as she carefully removed her clothes from the wardrobe and folded them neatly. Once folded, she set them on the bed, which had yet to be made. Minutes went by before she was done clearing the wardrobe of her things.

Then, she paused for a moment, looking around the room as if lost. Silently, he moved to the wardrobe and pulled a hardly used holdall bag from its depths. He handed it to her and she took it was a soft, small smile. Moving back to the door, he leant against the frame and continued to watch her move about the room.

"What if I don't get them back?"

The anxiety in her whispered inquiry chilled his blood. She had unknowingly ripped his fears out of the dark, bottomless abyss he'd shoved them in, and they were icicles piercing his abdomen. Swallowing the sand in his mouth away, he pushed off the doorframe.

He didn't move to comfort her.

Instead, he waited for her to meet his eyes before speaking. "I know you will."

Holding their gaze for a beat, he turned and left her to finish packing.

Potter and Lestrade walked through the door carrying an empty cardboard box each. He snatched the box in Lestrade's grasp and began to put Hermione's book, which she'd amassed during the two months there, inside without so much as another look at the two men. Almost awkwardly, Potter moved to set down the other box beside the one he was filing.

"Take it to Hermione," he said, with a wave of his hand. "She'll need it for shoes and the like."

Wordlessly, Potter did as directed, and once out of earshot, Lestrade spoke. "What are you doing?"

His grip tightened around the tome in his hand at the cutting accusation imbuing Lestrade's voice. Loosening the clenching of his jaw, he continued to pack Hermione's books without turning to the DI.

"I believe I'm packing Hermione's books away," he said, forced nonchalance dripping from his words. "Do keep up, Lestrade."

"I'm not joking around, Sherlock. What are you doing?"

He dropped the books in his hand. "And just what do _think_ I'm doing? Aside from the obvious, of course." This, with a wave of his hand towards the box.

"You're letting Hermione head home without so much as a protest. In fact, if what you've said is true, you're the one that convinced her to go home. Why?"

It was in this instant, that while Lestrade had always defended him against Donovan and Anderson's wild accusations, the DI still doubted him. He could hardly blame Lestrade, but after the years and numbers of cases solved, it pained him that his quasi-friend believed that he had ulterior motives for talking Hermione into returning home with Potter—the fact that he originally wanted her near him for his own selfish reasons was irrelevant.

"If you think that my reasons for convincing Hermione to go home are anything less than altruistic, Lestrade," he said just as he finished packing the box, "then I've misjudged you."

With that, he picked up his violin. He had to flex the tension away from his hand before he began to play.

Lestrade finally moved away just was his idle playing turned into Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D Major.

The music drew him away from consciousness and it was hardly an effort to stay there. He had no desire to think or feel anything beyond the call of the violin. With his instrument, there was no Lestrade, no cases, no tumultuous feelings, no John or Mrs Hudson or Mycroft—no Hermione, despite the long for her humming in his veins.

He played, and it was simply his violin and him.

Until John came stomping through the door.

That was when quite seriously considered looking for a new flatmate.

"John," Lestrade greeted.

"Uh…" was John's eloquent response.

His flatmate didn't get a chance to say anything else as Potter entered the room with Hermione trailing after him.

The pallor of her knuckles, which clutch the handle of his holdall bag, caught his attention. When she noticed his stare, she sent him a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes; they hold a shadow that unsettled him. Perhaps his mask slipped a bit, and she saw the worry festering inside him, because in the next moment, Hermione's smile widened and the shadows receded ever so slightly.

"What's going on?" John looked at him then to Hermione. "Are you leaving?"

"I'm going home, yeah," she said, almost apologetically.

Lamely, "Oh...well, um, that's great."

In a flurry of wild curls, Hermione dropped the holdall and rushes to hug John. His flatmate stumbled but managed to stay upright to return the hug.

Forcing himself to look away, he found Potter staring at him oddly. He arched his brow at the man and it prompted Potter to turn away.

"Dr Watson." The messy-haired man stepped forward when the pair parted. "Harry Potter. I'm a friend of Hermione's."

"Ah, well, it's a pleasure to meet you, I suppose." John shook the man's hand. "How'd you find her?"

"That would be my doing," Lestrade said from his seat on the sofa. "Harry came in and reported Hermione as a missing person. We've been searching for her for the past two months."

"You were probably surprised to find her with us."

"That's what I said."

A beat of stifling silence passed.

"I guess we'll be on our way then," Potter said, tucking the box in his arms under his arm to free the other so that he could bend down to pick up the holdall off the floor. "My wife's visiting her father in Devon and I have the car."

The fierce, sudden clenching of his heart robbed him of breath. He choked on the ball of panic making its way up his throat. Luckily—or unluckily—for him, Hermione was the only one to notice his staggered breathing.

She walked towards him and picked up the box sitting on his armchair. The concern in her eyes did little to soothe him, but he managed to give her a miniscule incline of his head to reassure her. Then, much to his surprise, she set down the box again and hugged him.

Her hands clutched his shirt and the top of her head fit comfortably beneath his chin. The hug caught him off guard so much that his hands were in the air, his fingers wrapped tightly around his bow and the neck of his violin. War thundered in him once more when Hermione pressed herself closer to him.

Painfully aware of the other men's gazes, he patted her back stiltedly. A small part of him wanted to push her away as his cheeks threatened to heat violently, but the rest of him savoured this last bit of contact between them. He didn't know when she would come back to him—if she came back to him at all.

"I'll visit often," she whispered—so quiet that he nearly missed her words. "I promise."

He patted her once more, but his hand lingered on her back for just a moment longer than he did before, and she let him go. With misty eyes, she bade him a silent farewell before turning back to Potter.

The moment she picked up the box again and returned to Potter's side, he turned back to the window to resume his playing. John huffed at him and Lestrade sighed, but he paid them no mind.

He heard their footsteps as they left over the song of his violin.

Staring resolutely and unseeingly out the window, he allowed himself to be swept away by the music.

* * *

Even at a quarter past midnight, he was still awake and ignoring his body's vehement yearning for sleep.

It was only then that he allowed his defences to drop.

His weariness bled out of him with a sigh. The walls of his Mind Palace seemed to shudder with his exhalation.

Absently, he rubbed at his chest, soothing the ache that had flared and ripped across his pectoral. The pain burned; a fierce, lashing strike of fire. The inferno roared when he ventured towards the crimson doors etched with rampant lions in his mind. He retreated because he'd lost the will to brave the flames.

Lying on the sofa, he tried to fall asleep there as he'd done before, because he couldn't bring himself to reclaim his bed—not when he knew that the scent of Hermione would undoubtedly linger on his pillows and sheets. If he did, it would've been a sweet kind of torture: the trace of her would buzz around in the chilling hollowness beneath his sternum.

Then, his mobile vibrated, tearing apart the silence.

He plucked it from coffee table without looking at it. With a sigh, he rolled his head to look at his mobile. The device nearly flew out of his hand as he launched himself upright.

For a moment, he couldn't breathe, because all he could do was stare at it. His hand trembled just slightly when he opened the text message.

 _Are you still awake?_

The soundless, huff of a chuckle left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. It was the perfect contrast to the sweet, addictive hum of warmth filling his veins.

With careful, almost gentle, deliverance that he replied.

'You should be asleep.'

The quick but steady and resonant beat of his heart nearly lulled him to sleep. Fortunately, Hermione responded before drowsiness could overtake him.

 _I can't._ A beat second, another text came through. _I miss you._

He was absolutely certain Mycroft had bugged his phone—he wouldn't put it past his brother to do such a thing. Any sort of response would give his brother leverage over him, because _sentiment is a weakness_ and he had to be infallible, if only to spite his brother. But at this moment, here in the midst of night's reign, he would allow the desires of his being to overrule the protestations of his head.

No more than a moment passed before he typed his response and sent it. 'John and Mrs Hudson miss you as well.'

She knew him too well, and he had no doubt that she would understand what he couldn't admit let alone articulate or express. Hermione was the only person that could see through him, yet she had no desire his downfall or destruction. Her ability to understand him no matter how hard he tried to retreat and hide had always baffled him.

Only now did he understand that he'd never really wanted to run or hide from her—not when she was his treasure.

 _Have you ever felt like a stranger in your own home?_

His immediate response was an agreement, but he couldn't muster the strength to reveal so much vulnerability in one sitting. 'It's understandable. There's no need for you to force yourself to fit into your life if you aren't comfortable.'

 _I know._ … _It's just Harry and Luna, his wife, they were just so HAPPY to have me back. And Ron, apparently he's my other best friend, and his family were tearful and utterly ecstatic to see me._... _It was like I'd gone off on holiday and they were trying to fill me in on everything that went on when I can't even recall half of their faces let alone names._ … _I couldn't bring myself to remind them that I couldn't remember them._

The sting of futility plunged into his mediastinum. With a faltering, piercing inhalation, air forced its way into his lungs and his fingers curled tighter around the device in his palm. Her distress reached him through the screen of his mobile and across the kilometres separating them only to penetrate the towering battlements around his heart.

Mycroft had called him useless many times in the entirety of of his life. But he'd never, _ever_ , believed himself to be until now—now when Hermione was in pain and no longer near him. He wasn't a boy disposed to express his thoughts or feelings.

Now, he was a man—a cool, cerebral consulting detective—that couldn't even begin to disregard the consequences that would come with exposition. It was that inability keeping him from responding as he wished.

'Should I wake John? … Or Mrs Hudson? … They are far more inclined and likely to succeed in consoling you than I am.'

His shortcomings were bitter pills to swallow, but he did so, knowing he could no longer blame Hermione for them.

 _You're doing better than you think, Sherlock. … Far better than John or Mrs Hudson ever could_.

And he fell in love with her all over again—so much so in fact that his mind went as silent as his heart did. He resolutely ignored the unsteadiness of his fingers as he tried to respond.

'You should sleep lest you damage your health.'

 _You should go to sleep too. … Now that I'm gone you can finally sleep in your bed again._

He would much rather share it with her, but he'd settle for the couch if it meant that she'd be here again in his bed. As it was, neither option was a possibility so he would remain on the couch rather than subject himself to the torment of the trace she left.

'Sleep. We'll continue another time.'

 _(sigh) Fine. … But remember, YOU said we'll continue. So don't be surprised if I wake up tomorrow and see that I've already texted you a dozen times over._

A soft laugh fell from his lips, turning into a ghost of a smile he couldn't suppress. His response was, perhaps, the most genuine thing he'd ever said to her. 'I eagerly await your message then.'

 _Then I'll talk to you in the morning. … Sleep well, Sherlock._

"Sleep well, Hermione." Rather than respond to her, he settled for whispering the words into the night instead.

* * *

SH + HG

* * *

 **April 2010**

 _Good morning, Sherlock! I know it's early, especially for you, but I'm just doing as I promised. :)_

 _EAT BREAKFAST! … Just because I'm not there anymore doesn't mean you can go ahead and miss it._

 _And stop making such a mess. … I'm sure Mrs Hudson will, once again, attempt to clean your ever messy flat and you know she has a bad hip. … Clean your room at least._

 _Tell John when you're bringing home human anatomy from Bart's, okay? … I'm sure he'd REALLY appreciate the heads up._

'Mrs Hudson has her "hip soothers." And there's always take away.'

 _Wow. I never thought I'd see you awake this early._

'It won't happen again.'

Ω

 _Apparently, I am the godmother of Harry and Luna's children (James, Lily, and Pandora) as well as Ron and his wife, Susan's (Rose and Edward)._

'Is that all?'

 _No. … Ginny, Ron's sister and my friend, Neville, Ginny's husband and ANOTHER my friend, just asked me to be the godmother of their little girl, who's expected to arrive in two months._

'Merlin.'

 _That's what I said._

Ω

 _So what are you going to do while John's in New Zealand with Sarah?_

'Respire.'

 _How fun. … Maybe I can keep you company while John's away._

'Perhaps.'

 _Oh, I know you miss me. ;) … Because I miss you._

Ω

 _I'm, apparently, great friends with Malfoy's parents. … Severus says they were in a bit of trouble years ago and I was the only one willing to help them. … And as the saying goes, the rest is history._

'…'

 _That was my reaction too._

Ω

 _So John and Sarah went to on the trip as a couple. … But when they returned, they'd broken up?_

'Yes.'

 _Well that's unfortunate. … How is he taking it?_

'He's fine.'

 _You have to give me more than that, Sherlock._

'Fine then. … He's wallowing in a cavernous pit of agony.'

 _He's gone out drinking with Stamford, hasn't he?_

'Several times. ... In the past week.'

 _Oh dear._

'Indeed.'

Ω

 _I think you and Severus would get along_.

'Really? How fascinating.'

 _Oh hush, you. … But I'm being completely serious. You're both brilliant, Chemists, and you both have the loveliest personalities. ;)_

'Oh yes. Because I'm quite sociable.'

 _Funny. … He said the same thing_.

* * *

 **May 2010**

 _John just texted me. … You're a great friend, Sherlock_.

'You really must elaborate as I have no idea in the slightest as to what you are referring to.'

 _You got beer for John because he's still, to quote you, "wallowing in a cavernous pit of agony."_

'How did you get John's number?'

Ω

 _Please tell me John's not serious_.

'John's not serious.'

 _Sherlock Holmes! … You did not steal a bus for a case!_

'I did not steal the bus. … I borrowed it.'

Ω

 _So…the Tilly Briggs pleasure cruise. … Care to share?_

'Not really.'

 _Not even if I can guarantee you'll get a sandwich within the next half hour?_

'…'

 _Two?_

'A laptop may have melted…'

Ω

 _Harry and Ron refuse to let me visit! … And they even got SEVERUS to try to dissuade me! … Can you believe the nerve of those two?_

'Shall I have Mycroft stage a kidnapping?'

 _Maybe next time. … But really, I'm sorry I can't visit. I miss you all._

'I'm sure John and Mrs Hudson return the sentiment.'

 _Admit it. … You miss the sandwiches._

'…'

* * *

 **June 2010**

 _Still no luck convincing Harry and Ron that I'll be fine visiting. … Oh, and Malfoy's apologised for the whole 'fiancée' incident by the way._

'Fascinating.'

 _I still can't remember anything about him other than the fact that he tormented me when we were in school._

'Have you had any progress?'

 _Not very much. … I vaguely recall some mundane moments of my life. Like work or collaborating with Severus. … Other than that, nothing significant. … I miss you._

'...'

Ω

 _Did John come up with "The Geek Interpreter"?_

'Unfortunately.'

Ω

 _So… Mrs Hudson and Mr Chatterjee. … Doesn't he have a wife?_

'In Doncaster AND Islamabad.'

 _Oh. … Are you going to tell her?_

'No.'

Ω

 _Why is there a severed foot in your fridge? … Mrs Hudson demands to know._

'It's an experiment.'

:|

'Mrs Hudson has your number?'

* * *

 **July 2010**

 _If it makes you feel any better, Ron's brother, Percy, thinks your blog is fascinating._

Ω

 _Severus thinks John's blog titles are ridiculous._

'Smart man.'

Ω

 _You two have become quite the celebrities! … Even Arthur, Ron's father, follows John's blog. … And he's melted a laptop trying to figure out how to turn it on._

'...'

 _You know I love you, Sherlock! ;)_

'...'

Ω

 _Harry's birthday is today._

'Indeed?'

 _Yep. … I've never seen so many redheads in one place in all my life._

'My condolences.'

* * *

 **August 2010**

 _I just saw John's blog._

'We can never speak of this again.'

 _All right then_.

Ω

 _Okay. … So, the hat isn't all that bad. … Really._

'...'

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE** | I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Your thoughts and feedback are always welcome guys!

 _Thank you for reading!_


	11. THERE HE GOES

**I'M SORRY FOR THE EPISODE REGURGITATION, BUT IT PLAYS A PART IN THE STORY (forgive me?).**

* * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THERE HE GOES

* * *

 _September 2010_

If that the ever-present emptiness in his heart would _just go away_ then his boredom would be bearable. He, of course, didn't delude himself into thinking that it would simply vanish on its own. No—there was only one cure for his _heartache_ and he hadn't had any contact with Hermione in nearly three weeks.

It didn't help that his flatmate was dating again, leaving him to wallow in his own "cavernous pit of agony"—though he would never verbally express his phase of endless monotony as such. For now, he reluctantly contented himself with staring at the ceiling and watching crap telly, much to John's evidently blatant amusement

The soft chime of bells interrupted the stagnant silence of the flat and his boredom. He carelessly picked up his ringing mobile from the floor. With a sluggish movement, he brought the device and barked a sharp, "Speak."

"Well hello to you too," Hermione responded with amusement.

Painfully aware of Mycroft's surveillance in his flat, his only sign of his surprise—and excitement—was his hand, which fisted as his arm pillowed his head. His heart tumbled and danced beneath his sternum, filling his veins with a honeyed warmth that was more addictive than any substance he'd ever used. The sensation left him momentarily speechless, but he recovered quickly.

"You called," was his ever so eloquent reply.

She laughed, and the sound poured into the emptiness in his chest. "Of course I called. I figured I'd call you since all we've done is exchange messages." He could almost see her smile. "You didn't think I would call, did you?"

No, he hadn't thought she would call—he wouldn't tell her that though.

"You've been busy lately." He managed to stifle his bitterness at the fact, but only just. "Have your… _friends_ …kept you occupied."

"Very." She huffed, but it sounded far from annoyed. "Between helping Severus, babysitting for Harry—because he works and Luna runs a small, independent newspaper—and the constant visits from Ginny, Molly—Ron's mum—and Narcissa—Malfoy's—I hardly have a moment to myself let alone find time to visit."

"And this has been your routine for the past five months?" he asked, making no effort to mask his disbelief.

"It wouldn't be," she replied. "If it wasn't for my memory loss then I would be at work. Sadly, I still can't recall nineteen years of my life save for sporadic moments here and there.

"Luckily for me, my boss gave me time off to recover and assured me I would still have my job when I'm better." He opened his mouth to inquire after what she did, but she cut him off. "I can't tell you what I do because it's classified and 'need-to-know' only."

It was his turn to huff, but he didn't press the subject. "It's for the best, I suppose. I'm sure Mycroft takes the liberty of looking through my messages and tapping into my phone calls. Wouldn't want him to find out your highly classified, possibly dangerous job, would we?"

Hermione laughed. "It probably still bothers him that he isn't on the 'need-to-know' list."

He didn't stop the smirk from curling his lips because he had no intention to do so. "I'm sure."

Silence enveloped them, but rather than find it uneasy, he simply basked in the comfort her presence provided. It didn't matter that she wasn't there with him; she was all he wanted, and he would take anything he could have.

"I miss you."

The words pierced and melted the walls and ice imbedded in the very centre of his chest. His pulse faltered and swallowing was all he could do to keep himself from returning the words desperately struggling to fall from his lips.

"I have to go," she said before he could form a response. "This is the first time in months that the little ones napped at the same time. It's the only moment I've had to myself for a long while."

"And you spent it speaking to me rather than have it to yourself?" he asked, incredulous, but pleased beyond reason.

"Of course. I haven't texted you in three weeks and it felt like _ages_." she replied. "I would like to think that warrants a call instead of a simple message."

He grinned ever so slightly. "Indeed."

"I'll send you a message later, okay? Hopefully, it won't be another three weeks until then, but with everyone trying to keep me busy and nearby, you can never know." He knew she shaking her head by the exasperation in her voice. "I miss you and I'll talk to you later. Bye!"

With that, their conversation ended.

He wouldn't begrudge her for hanging up before he could respond, but he was sure she knew that he wouldn't return the sentiment. In fact, he'd prepared to end the call, but she'd done so first.

 _She knows me so well_.

Shaking off his foolish, saccharine thoughts, he resumed his examination of the ceiling.

* * *

Mrs Hudson had washed his sheets long ago, which was why he was lying on his bed. His well-meaning landlady had erased the trace of Hermione and it only deepened the gaping chasm of ache festering inside him.

He scarcely minded Mrs Hudson puttering about the kitchen and smirked when he overheard her reaction to the bag of thumbs in his fridge. No doubt he'd get another text from Hermione on Mrs Hudson's behalf about keeping human anatomy in his fridge.

The sound of lumbering, hurried footsteps reached his ears, followed by wheezing, laboured breathing and utterly pathetic stuttering caught his attention. After a moment, there was a dull but loud _thud_ followed by Mrs Hudson shouting, " _Boys! You've got another one!_ "*

Huffing, he reluctantly peeled himself off his bed and went to the kitchen.

John was already there, probably having rushed from his room, and making sure the obese, sweaty, unconscious man on the floor was fine. He simply stepped around them and threw himself into his chair, ignoring John's mutterings against him. With a movement of his head, he motioned for Mrs Hudson to leave the man to them and she bustled out of the flat.

"A little help here," John called.

"Leave him," he replied. "The man will regain consciousness anyway."

The glare John sent him did anything but bother him. "Whatever."

Nearly twenty-minutes later, his assertion came true when the man picked himself off of the floor. He lazily observed the dazed man, ripping the information he needed from him, before plucking his phone from his pocket. Messaging Hermione was better most things, especially waiting for a perspiring, corpulent man to gather his bearings.

'What are you doing?'

 _Wait a minute. … I need to bask in the fact that YOU just messaged ME for the first time._

'Then I shall leave you to bask.'

 _Oh you know I'm only kidding. … As for your question, I'm enduring a rather boring football game with Harry and Ron. … They insisted that it's about time that I finally learn the merits of the game. … I'm really just here to humour them._

'Who's playing?'

 _It's just a community game so I have no idea._

"Sherlock," John called, but he ignored his flatmate.

'They took you to a lacklustre match between the locals rather than a professional game?'

 _Right in one_.

"Sherlock."

'My condolences.'

 _I'd ask if your offer for Mycroft to stage a kidnapping was still valid, but then I'd have to suffer his company, so I'm not going to._

"Sherlock!"

"What, John?" he barked, looking up from his mobile.

The doctor sat on the sofa while the stout man sat in a chair in the centre of the room. He narrowed his eyes at both of them before returning to his conversation.

'I have to go. John and a particularly portly man demand my attention.'

 _A client?_

" _Sherlock!_ " Again, John.

'Possibly.' He turned to his flatmate. "A moment."

 _Then I'll let you go. … Talk later. x_

…a kiss…

...She'd sent him a kiss…

The rapture that bolted through him was dizzying and electrifying and— _Dear God… I've gone mad_.

With a shake of his head, he slipped his mobile back into his pocket and turned to his rather impatient friend and so-called client. He stared at the rotund man, waiting for him to get on with his claim.

Several moments of silence elapsed and all the man did was fidget in the chair.

"Oh for God's sake—" He pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled deeply because the imbecile needed prompting. "Do get on with it."

The man jumped and dragged a heavy hand across his dripping brow. "I— Uh. Well, I— I think I may have k-killed a man."

"You _think_?" he inquired sharply, his patience thin from having his conversation with Hermione cut short.

"Y-You see—" The man pressed a sweat-soaked handkerchief to his face. "—I swear he was alive, but then— Then he was dead."

He glowered at his "client" just to watch him squirm. Satisfied that the man was discomfited, he relented.

" _Tell us from the start._ Don't _be boring_."*

* * *

As soon as John left to scene of the murder, he left the obese man alone and retreated to his room. He had a good hour before John would get to the scene, so his next course of action was a shower.

The hot water released the tension from his body, but did nothing to relinquish the chaos in his head. With a new case afoot, his mask slipped into place and he shoved every thought and trace of Hermione behind the doors of her wing in his Mind Palace. Now was not the time for distractions.

Quickly, he finished showering and returned to his room. He didn't bother changing into his clothes immediately and the inclination to do so was far from him. Instead, he flopped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling.

A new door, albeit a small one, appeared in his mind for the case and he stored all the necessary information into it. There wasn't much and until he saw the crime scene, he wouldn't be able to figure much of it out let alone solve it entirely.

The soft chime of bells—the only personalised text tone for one of his contacts—reached him from the floor of his bedroom. Without preamble, as he was in the privacy of his room, he swiftly rolled to his side and ripped his trousers from the floor. He flung the article of clothing away as soon as he had his mobile and settled back to read Hermione's message.

 _I'M GOING TO MURDER HARRY AND RON!_

He'd never been more willing to offer his services to anyone in his life at that moment. Before he could respond, a slew of messages came through.

 _I won't because I love the idiots, even if I can't remember them, but they're DRIVING ME MAD! … You know, they asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday, since it's on the 19th, and since I know they'd want to throw me a party or something similar, I told them that we could celebrate it together at Harry's house, because he insisted. … They'd been ecstatic, as you can imagine, but that wasn't all that I'd planned. … I then told them that I wanted to visit Baker Street the next day to celebrate with you, John, and Mrs Hudson and because it's been AGES since I've seen you last and you know what they said? … They said, no. … That's it. Just, no. … And I finally snapped because they have NO RIGHT not to let me visit my friends. … I AM A GROWN WOMAN. … I'm 31 and amnesic. Not 1 and in nappies. … You can imagine the row that ensued, and yes, it was of epic proportions, which resulted in me escaping to the MALFOYS of all places because despite my friendship with them, Harry and Ron are just barely cordial to them. … I let them dissuade me from visiting before because I didn't want to make them worry but they've gone too far this time. … Whether they like it or not I will be visiting on the 20th so you better have the flat clean, Sherlock, or so help me I will tell Molly to stop letting you take home human anatomy!_

Her rant had him burying his face into a pillow to smother his laughter. Of course, her predicament was nothing to laugh at, but he mostly laughed at the image of a riled Hermione hunched over her mobile and violently typing her frustrations to him. The image of her flushed cheeks and frizzing hair simultaneously warmed and inflamed him. Luckily for him, he was able to tamp down the surge of desire before it ventured south.

Once again, his mobile sounded and he read her newest message.

 _I apologise. … I didn't mean to bother you with my frustrations. … I just really needed someone to listen to me without trying to placate me or convince me that Harry and Ron are right. … I know everyone means well, but I don't understand why they want to keep me locked away like I'm some sort of damsel in distress._

'You could never be the damsel. … You would figure out how to get out of the blasted tower before your knight could come to your rescue.'

 _I seem to recall a quite a few moments where YOU came to my rescue. So I think your argument is flawed._

'Semantics.'

 _Hardly, but I'll let it slide. … Again, I'm sorry for my rant. I just needed to vent and you were the first one that came to mind._

'Because I'm such an excellent listener.'

 _Yes you are. … I'll let you get back to whatever you were doing. … Just remember that I'm visiting on the 20th so clean the flat! … Bye! x_

Deductions help him if that kiss wasn't the sweetest one of his life.

* * *

As predicted, nearly an hour later, John sent him a message that he'd reached the crime scene. He wrapped his sheet around him and shuffled out of his room.

Ignoring the still-perspiring man, he grabbed his laptop and opened it. He then went to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea.

Just as he finished, John video-called him and he answered. "Speak."

"Sherlock!" John glowered. "Are you naked?"

"I showered," he replied.

"And you didn't think to put clothes on when you were done?" The doctor glanced over his shoulder. "Never mind. Don't answer that. Just put on some clothes."

Rather than respond, he returned to his room for his mobile. He ignored John's response of " _You realise this is a tiny bit humiliating_ "* and picked his drink and laptop. Once again disregarding his "client" and the sudden ring of the doorbell, he moved to the sitting room and took a seat at the table against the wall.

"You know, you could've come yourself," John said.

"The case is a six," he replied, quickly checking his mobile for messages before returning to the video call. "I won't leave the flat for anything less than a seven. Now show me the stream and then the grass."

John did as instructed but replied, "When did we make this decision?"

"Yesterday." Something in the stream caught his eye. "Wait, stop. Move closer."

Instead of following his demand, his flatmate turned the laptop towards him. "But I was in Dublin yesterday. I couldn't have agreed even if I'd wanted to."

"Pity." The doorbell rang again and he turned toward the stairs. " _Shut up!_ "* With a huff, he faced the laptop again.

"So you do carry on talking when I'm gone."

And there it was. "Perhaps. Now show me the car."

One more irritated huff later and then the scene on the screen changed. "There. That the one—" John's extended arm and pointed index finger appeared onscreen. "—made the noise."

He hummed and sat back, dipping into his Mind Palace to organise his thoughts while John rambled on. Faintly, he registered the doctor's words and correlated them with what his observations. Almost immediately, the most pieces of the case fell into place, but before he could pick apart the details to solve it, the detective in charge spoke.

"You both have two minutes left," Detective Carter said. "Then I want to know more about our suspect."

A short, sharp bark of laughter tumbled from his lips. "You think the _driver_ is a suspect?" He shook his head. "He _thinks_ himself a suspect. He's a idiot."

"And why not?" Carter asked, indignant.

He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "John, pass me over."

John rolled his eyes and sighed. "All right, but I'm warning you, I will mute you if I need to."

There was a bit of distortion on screen from John's shuffling to lift the device on the other end. Unsatisfied with the angle, he barked, " _Up a bit! I'm not talking from down here_." John, obviously fed up with him, passed the device to Carter. "Why would _anyone_ who drove to an isolated location and successfully commit a crime, without a single witness, if I might add, call the police and then consult a detective?"

"Overconfidence. The man's trying to be clever."

He nearly slapped his palm to his forehead but settled for rolling his eyes. "You saw him, yes?"

Without waiting for a response, he went on, "Morbidly obese; single and living on his own; porn addict, as you can tell by the right sleeve; the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition; limited life expectancy; tiny IQ; and abysmal self-esteem." He snorted. "Oh yes. He's _assuredly_ an audacious, criminal mastermind." Turning, he addressed the other man. "Don't worry. This is just baseless and insipid speculation."

Back to Carter, he said, "Just go back to the stream."

"The stream? What's there?"

He sat back upon hearing the front door open. "Go back to the stream."

Mrs Hudson bustled through the door then, two well-dressed men following her. "Sherlock! You didn't answer your doorbell again."

One of the men stepped towards him and jabbed a thumb in the direction of his room. "Get him some clothes. His room's in the back—through there."

His brows furrowed. " _Who the hell are you?_ "*

The man that spoke turned to him. "My apologies, Mr Holmes—" He shut his laptop, effectively cutting off John. "—but you're coming with us."

As discreetly as possible, he palmed his mobile and wrapped his arms within the folds of his sheet. The other well-dressed man set his clothes down in front of him and he stared indifferently at them.

"Mr Holmes, please, you'll want to be dressed where we're going," the first man said.

Lazily, he turned to the man and observed.

 _Expensive suit. Unarmed. Indoor, office worker. Right-handed. Manicured hands. One— Two— THREE small dogs._

He smirked once he had his deductions and looked up at the man. " _Oh, I know exactly where I'm going_."*

* * *

Buckingham Palace was everything he expected it to be—disgustingly opulent and nauseatingly posh. Still, he couldn't suppress the overwhelming wave of awe that crashed over him the moment the man left him.

Once he assured himself that he was alone, he swiftly transferred the crystal ashtray he'd snatched from a coffee table in another room to the inner pocket of his coat. He chuckled to himself at his prize before settling back against the sofa. Not a moment soon after, an escort appeared with John following.

The escort left, leaving John to give him a look and gesture that clearly said, "What the hell?" In response, he shook his head and shrugged. John sat on the other end of the sofa. He scrutinised the detail of the room further before his flatmate spoke.

"You wearing any pants?"

Immediately, he replied, "No."

"Right."

A hush fell over them. For another moment, they both took in the room again then looked at each other. They then promptly fell into a fit of laughter.

John recovered—well, tried to anyway—first. "We're at Buckingham Palace."

He chuckled in response.

"I am really fighting the impulse to steal an ashtray," John said.

Luckily for him, the doctor wasn't looking at him, or else he would have seen the smirk on his face. He laughed again.

John did too, shortly, before clearing his throat. "Seriously. _What_ are _we_ doing here, Sherlock?"

"I haven't a clue in the slightest."

"See the Queen, maybe?"

He turned when footsteps sounded from the doorway to his left. Mycroft appeared and he smirked.

"Apparently, yes," he said to John.

They both laughed at his quip, much to the evident annoyance of his older brother.

"Will you two, for once, behave like adults?" Mycroft asked, moving to stand closer to them.

"Well, we solve crimes, I blog about the, and he—" John nodded to him. "—forgets his pants, so I would expect much."

He didn't bother correcting his flatmate when he spoke. "I _was_ in the middle of a case."

Mycroft smirked and bled condescension. "A bit obvious for a case, isn't it?"

" _Transparent_."*

"Good, then it's time to move on."

Mycroft picked up his clothes and he carefully watched his brother to make sure he didn't notice the ashtray hidden in his coat. Satisfied his sibling hadn't noticed, he looked away to stare at the artwork on the wall.

Eventually, his brother sighed and, fed up with his stubbornness, said, "Sherlock Holmes. We are in Buckingham Palace—the very heart of the British nation. Put your trousers on. Now."

"And why should I?"

"You have a client."

" _And my client is…?_ "*

Yet another well-dressed man appeared and answered, " _Illustrious, in the extreme_."* He turned and John stood when the man walked further into the room. "And entirely anonymous."

He nearly rolled his eyes at the familiarity between Mycroft and the man as they greeted each other. Of course, he did roll his eyes when his brother took it upon himself to apologise for his so-called "state of undress." Moreover, he ignored them when Harry—the man—went on to greet John.

To his dismay, he really couldn't ignore Harry's direct address of "You look taller in your photographs, Mr Holmes the younger."

"The result of a good coat and a short friend," he replied tersely. Quickly, he then turned and moved toward his brother. "I don't take anonymous clients. I look for mystery at one end of my cases is good enough. Not both." He nodded his head at Harry. " _Good morning_."

He took three steps before Mycroft stepped on the end of his bedsheet. Catching the sheet, he just barely managed to keep everything from his waist down covered as well as hide his mobile in the folds of the sheet.

"Grow up, Sherlock," his brother hissed. "This matter is of national importance."

It took a deep, steadying breath to keep his temper in check, but even then, he forced his next words through clenched teeth. "Let go of the sheet."

" _Or what?_ "*

"I'll walk away."

"I _will_ let you."

"Not here, boys. Please," that from John.

"Who is my client?" he demanded.

"Look at where you're standing, Sherlock, and make a deduction. Now for God's sake! _Put your clothes on_."*

Growling under his breath, he securely wrapped the sheet around his waist and stomped towards his clothes. He picked them up and retreated to the lavatory Plummer showed him earlier. In less than two minutes, he returned and threw himself into his seat.

Mycroft, Harry, and John simply stared at him with irritation, disbelief, and exasperation respectively.

"Well?" he said sharply.

His bark prompted them to sit, but not before a member of the staff brought in a tea tray.

Mycroft's _impeccable_ manners came to fore and he poured tea. " _I'll be mother_."*

A caustic remark sat on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it down. He'd rather not risk revisiting memories of his childhood.

"Since we've already established that your employer is anonymous and this is a matter of _national importance_ , spare me the roundabout details and get to the point as to why you need my expertise," he said flatly.

Mycroft sighed. "Eloquent as always."

"To the point," he repeated.

"Well, as you've already deducted, this is a matter of the highest security and trust. Rather than entrust the situation to our secret service, we've come to you, Sherlock."

"As it is, we are also on a timetable," Harry added.

From floor beside the sofa, Mycroft lifted a briefcase and set it on his lap. His brother opened it and then handed him a glossy photograph. Shifting to the edge of his seat, he examined the photo of a woman.

"Do you know this woman?"

"Should I?"

"You should."

Mycroft went on to reveal the details about her, but all he could do was study the image.

The woman was aesthetically pleasing. He could even go as far as saying she was beautiful—some would say sexy and sultry—but he couldn't find it within himself to think of her as such.

Not when every fibre of his being longed for whiskey-brown eyes, a mane of unruly curls, and a smile reserved solely for _him_.

"Who is she?" he asked, carefully returning the visage of Hermione to her wing in his mind.

"Irene Adler," Mycroft replied. "Professionally, she's known as The Woman."

"Uh…professionally?" John inquired.

"There are a number of names for what she does, but she prefers 'dominatrix.'"

" _Dominatrix_ ," he repeated, thoughtfully.*

" _Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex._ "*

He looked up at Mycroft and narrowed his eyes at the return of the condescending smirk on his brother's face.

" _Sex doesn't alarm me._ "*

"And how would you know?"

It wasn't even a struggle to keep from correcting Mycroft. Not when he guarded everything and anything pertaining to _that_ night so jealously. He would rather have everyone on the planet mock him for being a virgin than be privy to the one of the most precious moments of his life.

"For those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it, she provides…'recreational scolding.'" Mycroft removed more photos from his brief case and handed them over. "These are from her website."

Quickly, he leafed through them, only taking a moment to take in the text. "I'm assuming this woman has some compromising photographs then."

"Several photographs."

"Of whom?"

"Again, the client wishes to remain anonymous, but all I can say is that Miss Adler appears in the photos with a young, _female_ person," Mycroft said.

He glanced at John and saw that his friend's held the teacup half-raised. " _John, you might want to put that cup back in your saucer now._ "*

The doctor immediately does as he suggested.

"You _can_ help us and take the case, Mr Holmes?" Harry asked.

"No, because there is no case." He shifted to gathered his overcoat, which he'd thrown over the back of the sofa when he'd stormed back into the room after putting on his clothes. " _Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, 'Know when you are beaten.'_ "*

"She hasn't made any demands," Mycroft said. "She got in touch, informed us of the photographs' existence, and indicated that she had no intention of using them to extort money or favour."

His interest peaked. "This is getting rather _fun_. Only a dominatrix would risking playing a powerplay with the most powerful family in Britain. Right then," he said, standing and moving towards the exit. "Where is she?" Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, but he continued, "Never mind. Text me the details. I'll have the photographs by the end of the day."

"I can only hope you're as good as you seem to think," this from Harry.

He narrowed his gaze and ripped deductions from the man.

 _Dog lover. Public school. Horse rider. Early riser. Left side of bed. Non-smoker. Father. Half-Welsh. Keen reader. Tea Drinker._

With a sharp turn, he tossed a " _Laters!_ " over his shoulder and left without looking back to check if John was following.

* * *

After carefully stowing away the stolen ashtray, and sharing a laugh with John about it, he turned his gaze to the window and stared unseeingly out it. He took extra care to make sure his face remained expressionless, but he could do nothing about the hurricane of his thoughts.

Truth be told, he had no inkling of a plan, so he was completely clueless as to how to go about retrieving the photographs from this Adler woman. That wasn't to say he _couldn't_ come up with a plan—he simply didn't have one at the moment. If anything, he would deal with the problem as it arose.

Right at this moment, he needed to formulate a stratagem—or at least a part of one.

He was out of the vehicle as soon as the cab pulled up to Baker Street., thereby leaving John to pay the fare. Upon reaching his room, he removed his overcoat, scarf, and coat. Quickly, he began shuffling through his clothes, his mind whirling with plans and probabilities.

Half an hour passed and he was no closer to constructing a stratagem. With a huff, he put his clothes away before falling onto his bed. He lazily fished his mobile from his pocket and scanned through his conversation with Hermione.

Almost two hours had passed since her last message, and while he'd accepted the fact that he'd fallen in love her again, he was struggling with the tender emotions she'd rekindled within him. In the years since she'd left, he'd ever only experienced miniscule bursts of feeling, and many of those occurrences transpired since meeting Mrs Hudson and John.

Hermione, however, had slipped her way past the walls that'd protected him for so many years. He was swiftly losing the unyielding control he'd had on his emotions because of this.

And when it concerned Hermione, he was hardly able to maintain the mask he'd worn for the last fifteen years.

Exiting the messages app, he locked the phone and returned it to his pocket. He sat up and redressed, all the while gently guiding his tender feelings back into the wing of his Mind Palace reserved for his heart.

* * *

There was a long moment of silence before his friend finally spoke. "I'm sorry. You want me to do _what_?"

He rolled his eyes at John's bewilderment. Tugging his scarf off, he stored it away, tilted his head, and offered his cheek to his flatmate.

"Just punch me."

John stared at him blankly. " _Punch_ you?"

He pulled back and straightened. "Did you not hear me clearly?"

"I heard you," the doctor replied. "It's just I always hear you say 'punch me' but usually it's subtext."

With another roll of his eyes, he fisted his hand, pulled back his arm, and swung at John. His fist connected with the doctor's jaw and, satisfied, he drew his arm back. Shaking the ache from his hand, he braced himself for the monster he'd unleashed.

* * *

"...it will have to do."

"Really? That's all you say after I've just beaten you senseless?"

"Do I look like I've been beaten senseless?"

"You're _bleeding_ , Sherlock."

"Oh yes, because I look like I've been attacked, don't I?"

"Sh— What is the point of this?"

"Never mind."

"Er, okay?"

"Good, now come along."

* * *

It wasn't his best plan. Granted, it may have been his worst plan. The idea had come to him the moment he stepped outside the flat and the probability of success was higher than anything else he'd pondered, so it would have to do. By the amusement of the assistant's face, he already knew his acting so far had been subpar, but it was all he could do when he was entering the unknown territory.

Adler's sitting room was elegant in its simplicity, but far from inviting. The sofa was firm still from disuse and stiff to the point of discomfort. Despite being expensive and urbane, he would have preferred a rickety wooden chair on the brink of collapsing.

He straightened in his seat at the click of heels and pressed his handkerchief to his cheek. The open wound stung when he pressed, but it didn't bleed.

"I'm so sorry to hear you've been hurt," Adler called from the hallway. The clicks grew louder as she drew nearer. "But I don't think Kate got your name."

"Forgive me for the intrusion, but—" He'd turned just as he caught movement in the doorway.

The sight before him halted him.

What surprised him wasn't Adler's aesthetic appeal, but rather, it was her decision use it so blatantly. He'd expected subtlety and seduction—not her outright nudity. Of course, he should have taken the possibility into accounting, but as usual, he'd distracted himself.

Even more troubling, however, was the faint rush of heat that ripped down his spine. He kept his sight on Adler but his mind was working furiously to figure out why the sight of her naked had stirred his arousal. Logically, he knew why his body _reacted_ , it was simple science, but what he couldn't fathom was _why_ it had.

Adler was not the first person he'd ever found aesthetically pleasing to the eye. For the past fifteen years, Hermione had been the only person to attract him let alone inspire lust. The fact that this woman, whom he had no attraction for, tugged at his baser—and suppressed—instincts perplexed him.

"It's hard to remember an alias after a fright, isn't it?" she asked, sauntering into the room to stand before him.

Despite the bemusement of his realisation, her nudity and proximity didn't bother him. It almost amused him, if it weren't for the fact that Adler seemed to revel in the fact that she'd astounded him. Yes, her nakedness had surprised him, but not in the way she probably perceived.

Her crimson-stained lips curled into a sultry grin. "Hello Mr Holmes."

"Miss Adler," he returned with a nod of his head.

"Those cheekbones." She feathered her fingertips over them. Where the action would have inflamed his arousal had his heart not belonged to another, it only caused him to note the absence of sincerity and warmth in her touch. "I think I would cut myself slapping that face." Adler leaned closer towards him. "Would you like for me to try?"

He didn't respond only to allow her believe that she had the upper-hand. In actuality, he'd already gathered information.

The lack of clothes allowed him to deduce her measurements, whereas her stance allowed him to infer which leg she favored. Everything else about her, from her height to age, were easy to discover, but because of her nudity, there was nothing more that he could gather—clothes were very telling normally. For now, he summoned the best of his acting capabilities and kept his determination to retrieve the photos at the fore of his mind.

John's firm, even footsteps drew their attention.

"This should do it," his friend said, looking down at the bowl of water in his hand. Looking up, John's eyes immediately turned to Adler and stayed there for a moment before dropping to the bowl and up again. "Um...I've missed something."

He nearly rolled his eyes, but settled for staring at John instead.

Adler stepped away from him. "Have a seat, Dr Watson," she said, walking to the armchair on his right. She folded her arms and crossed her legs casually, gracefully. The movements weren't meant to hide her nudity, but rather, enhance it.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked with feigned cordiality.

"No thank you," he replied, busying himself by folding his handkerchief and putting it away. "I had tea at the Palace."

Adler smirked when he turned to her. "Oh, I know."

He gave her a ruse of trying to figure her out while she did the same of him.

John's shuffling ruined the momentary stillness of the room. "I had some too. Tea, I mean. At the Palace."

Purposely, he furrowed his brows, as if unable to analyse her. He then turned to John and feigned an analysis of his flatmate. After a moment, he looked to Adler again, stared, and narrowed his eyes in supposed confusion.

Her smile, in response to his "inability" to analyse her, was confident, taunting, and seductive. A frown was his next move.

"Did you know, Mr Holmes, that now matter how hard you try, a disguise is always a self-portrait," she said.

He arch his brow. "You think I'm the unfortunate victim of a physical assault and robbery?"

"Of course not." She leaned forward. "I think you're damaged. Obviously delusional. And you believe in a high power—yourself, in this case." Another smirk spread across her lips. " _Somebody_ loves you, of course. I'd avoid your nose and teeth too if I had to punch that face."

Adler looked to John and his flatmate fidgeted.

"Could you put something on? Please?" John glanced down at the bowl still in his hands and tugged at the napkin hinging from the rim. "Napkin?"

"Are you feeling exposed, Dr Watson?"

He stood and shook out his coat then offered it to Adler, if only to rescue John from his discomfort. "John just doesn't know where to look."

"On the contrary, Mr Holmes, I think he knows _exactly_ where to look." As if to prove his point, she stood and, ignoring the offered coat, moved to stand before John.

He laughed on the inside at John's evident struggle to keep his eye contact with Adler. Through the mirror on the wall, he observes their interaction, bored.

Until the faint parallel marks on the wall above the mirror caught his eye. When the coat left his hand, he averted his gaze from it.

"I'm just not sure about you, Mr Holmes," Adler said.

"I'd borrow John's laptop if I wanted to look at naked women," he replied.

"You always borrow my laptop."

"I confiscated it for your sake." He idly moved closer to the fireplace and the mirror above it. "You'll thank me later."

There was no time for him to examine it before Adler demanded his attention again. "So how was it done?"

"How was what done?" he asked.

Adler removed her heels as she spoke. "How was the hiker with the bashed-in head murdered?"

He wasn't surprised she knew of the hiker; she must have an informant of some sort. How else would she know his name, John's, and the fact that they had tea at the Palace. The only answer that made the most sense was that she had connections, which suited her.

As a dominatrix, she would be in power, and the kind of power she had was knowledge. She was clever woman, he would give her that, but her strengths lay in her artful capabilities.

"How do you—"

He cut John off. "He wasn't murdered."

"You don't think he was murdered?" Adler inquired.

"I don't think. I _know_."

"How do you know?"

Ignoring her, he turned to the other man. "John, close the door and take a seat. We'll be here a while." To Adler, he said, " _The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room._ "*

"Sherlock," John said, face coloured with impatience.

"Okay—" She glanced at the closed door suspiciously. "—but how?"

He noted her confirmation of his guess, but pushed it aside. "Two men in the countryside, several yards apart, and one car."

"Uh…" was John's eloquent response.

"Aren't you looking for the photos?" This from Adler.

"Two men and a car." He turned to them. "The driver is trying to fix his engine and getting nowhere while the hike is taking a moment to look at the sky. Something's going to happen any moment now. What is it?"

"The hiker's going to die," she guessed.

"No."

"The car's going to backfire," John offered.

"No." He turned around and returned to examining the fireplace and mirror. "Think. What's going to happen?"

"The car backfires and the hiker dies," his friend said tersely.

"Yes, we've established that," he replied.

It was then that he noticed the mirror hung perfectly on the wall. Tilting his head to get a better look at the side, he found that there was a sliver of space—practically nonexistent really—between the mirror and the wall and a severe lack of hooks to hold the decoration. Instead, he found was even more telling.

"Sherlock."

Ignoring John, yet again, he examined the fireplace. He ran his hand along the top of the mantle then below. When his fingers brushed over an abnormality, he pressed on it and the mirror slid upwards, revealing a safe.

He turned to Adler and found her staring at him with a faint gleam of astonishment and impression. John's state was much the same. Turning back around, he leaned closer to examine the safe.

" _Hmm. Should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposit is always on the first key used—that's quite clearly the three—but after that the sequence is almost impossible to read. I'd say from the make that it's a six digit code. Can't be your birthday—no disrespect but clearly you were born in the eighties; the eight's barely used, so…_ "*

Adler stood and quirked a brow at him. " _I'd tell you the code right now but you know what? I already have._ " His frown was genuine this time. " _Think_."*

Before he could respond, there was a bang and the door flew open. Four men clad in black stormed into the room, wielding guns. The leader of the group moved towards him.

"Put your hands behind your head," the leader ordered, looking at John and Adler. "On the floor now. Don't move."

His friend immediately did as instructed while Adler was more reluctant to do so. Seeing this, another one of the men shoved her to the ground and pressed the barrel of his pistol to her head. Alarms sounded in his mind as he registered the charge of danger in the air.

"Would you like me on the ground as well?" he asked, holding his hands up.

"No. You're going to open the safe," the same man replied, holding the pistol levelled at his torso.

" _American. Interesting. Why would you care?_ " He glanced at Adler then away.

"Open the safe," the man demanded. " _Now_."

"I can't. I don't know the code."

"We've been listening to your conversation. She said she already told you."

"And if you've been listening, then you would know that she didn't."

"I'm assuming I've missed something, but according to your reputation, Mr Holmes, I know _you_ didn't."

"For God's sake—"

"—John," he barked, glaring at his friend to shut him up. The situation was delicate as it was and he couldn't risk John lighting the fuse with his emotions. He returned to the American, "Ask Miss Adler. It's her safe."

"I've already learned not to trust that woman, Mr Holmes. She could easily give me the code that sets off the burglar alarm and we wouldn't want that, would we?"

"He doesn't—"

"—Shut up!" The American cut Adler off with a snarl and pointed his gun at her. "One more word out of you and I'll decorate the walls with the inside of your head. I won't lose sleep if it comes to it."

He tensed at the barely withheld rage in the American's eye and his mind began to work furiously to formulate an escape.

There wasn't much time for him to think very far before the American spoke again. "Mr Archer, shoot Dr Watson on the count of three."

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE** | My take on this episode was longer than I thought, so I think it'll be split into 3 parts, though I'm trying for 2. Sorry for the cliffhanger (and the regurgitation of the episode) but we all kinda know what happens next...

 _And as a I promised_ , THE ELUSIVE WITCH: " _When Sherlock inadvertently discovers the Wizarding World, Hermione saves him from being found and Obliviate'd. She berates him, urges (threatens) him to keep silent about what he saw, and they spar—wit for wit, temper for temper. In doing so, she catches his interest, but before she leaves, he swears he'll find her again. And so the game begins._ "

 _Thank you to MyraValhallah for her super-awesome Beta skills!_

 _And thanks you to you guys for reading!_


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